:-NRLF 


C,  t    I 
7  C?  / 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 


TOLD  IN 
A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

AUGUST,  1914 


BY 

Mildred  Aldrich 

Author  of 
'A  Hilltop  on  the  Ma  me" 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916 
BY  MILDRED  ALDRICH 


Second  Printing,  October,  iqzb 
Third  Printing,  October,  iqib 

Fourth  Printing,  October,  iqito 
Fifth  Printing,  October,  79/6 
Sixth  Printing,  October,  79/6 
Seventh  Printing,  October,  iqib 

Eighth  Printing,  December,  iqib 


Jlrlntrro 

S.  J.  PAKKHILL  &  Co.,  BOSTON,  U.S.A. 


TO 

F.  E.  C. 

a  prince  of  comrades  and  a  royal 
friend,  whose  quaint  humor 
gladdened  the  days  of  my  early 
struggle,  and  whose  unfailing 
faith  inspired  me  in  later  days 
to  turn  a  smiling  face  to  Fate 


64, 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 3 

How  We  Came  into  the  Garden 

I    THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY    ...     29 

It  Happened  at  Midnight  —  The 
Tale  of  a  Bride's  New  Home 

II    THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY       .     45 

The  Son  of  Josephine  —  The  Tale 
of  a  Foundling 

III  THE  CRITIC'S  STORY      ....     60 

'Twas  in  the  Indian   Summer  — 
The  Tale  of  an  Actress 

IV  THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY    ....     83 

As  One  Dreams —  The  Tale  of 
an  Adolescent 

V    THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY      ...     96 

Unto  This  End  —  The  Tale  of  a 
Virgin 

VI    THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY       .     .     .135 

One  Woman's  Philosophy  —  The 
Tale  of  a  Modern  Wife 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII     THE  LAWYER'S  STORY    .     .     .     .166 

The  Night  Before  the  Wedding 
—  The  Tale  of  a  Bride-Elect 

VIII    THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY    .     .      .   188 

In  a  Railway  Station  —  The  Tale 
of  a  Dancer 

IX    THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY       .     .     .221 

The  Soul  of  the  Song  —  The  Tale 
of  a  Fiancee 

X    EPILOGUE 259 

Adieu  —  How  We  Went  Out  of 
the  Garden 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH 
GARDEN 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH 
GARDEN 

INTRODUCTION 

HOW  WE    CAME   INTO   THE   GARDEN 

IT  was  by  a  strange  irony  of  Fate  that 
we  found  ourselves  reunited  for  a  sum 
mer's  outing,  in  a  French  garden,  in  July, 
1914. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Youngster, 
we  had  hardly  met  since  the  days  of  our 
youth. 

We  were  a  party  of  unattached  people, 
six  men,  two  women,  your  humble  serv 
ant,  and  the  Youngster,  who  was  an  out 
sider. 

With  the  exception  of  the  latter,  we 
had  all  gone  to  school  or  college  or  danc 
ing  class  together,  and  kept  up  a  sort  of 
superficial  acquaintance  ever  since  —  that 
sort  of  relation  in  which  people  know 
something  of  one  another's  opinions  and 

[  3  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

absolutely  nothing  of  one  another's  real 
lives. 

There  was  the  Doctor,  who  had  studied 
long  in  Germany,  and  become  an  authority 
on  mental  diseases,  developed  a  distaste 
for  therapeutics,  and  a  passion  for  research 
and  the  laboratory.  There  was  the  Law 
yer,  who  knew  international  law  as  he 
knew  his  Greek  alphabet,  and  hated  a 
court  room.  There  was  the  Violinist,  who 
was  known  the  world  over  in  musical  sets, 
—  everywhere,  except  in  the  concert  room. 
There  w'as  the  Journalist,  who  had  trav 
elled  into  almost  as  many  queer  places  as 
Richard  Burton,  seen  more  wars,  and  fol 
lowed  more  callings.  There  was  the 
Sculptor,  the  fame  of  whose  greater  father 
had  almost  paralyzed  a  pair  of  good 
modeller's  hands.  There  was  the  Critic, 
whose  friends  believed  that  in  him  the 
world  had  lost  a  great  romancer,  but 
whom  a  combination  of  hunger  and  lazi 
ness,  and  a  proneness  to  think  that  nothing 
not  genius  was  worth  while,  had  con 
demned  to  be  a  mere  breadwinner,  but  a 
breadwinner  who  squeezed  a  lot  out  of 
life,  and  who  fervently  believed  that  in  his 
next  incarnation  he  would  really  be  "  it." 
Then  there  was  "  Me,"  and  of  the  other 

[4] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

two  women  —  one  was  a  Trained  Nurse, 
and  the  other  a  Divorcee,  and  —  well, 
none  of  us  really  knew  just  what  she  had 
become,  but  we  knew  that  she  was  very 
rich,  and  very  handsome,  and  had  a  lean 
ing  toward  some  sort  of  new  religion.  As 
for  the  Youngster  —  he  was  the  son  of  an 
old  chum  of  the  Doctor  —  his  ward,  in 
fact  —  and  his  hobby  was  flying. 

Our  reunion,  after  so  many  years,  was 
a  rather  pretty  story. 

In  the  summer  of  1913,  the  Doctor  and 
the  Divorcee,  who  had  lost  sight  of  one 
another  for  twenty  years,  met  by  chance 
in  Paris.  Her  ex-husband  had  been  a  col 
lege  friend  of  the  Doctor.  They  saw  a 
great  deal  of  one  another  in  the  lazy  way 
that  people  who  really  love  France,  and 
are  done  sightseeing,  can  do. 

One  day  it  occurred  to  them  to  take  a 
day's  trip  into  the  country,  as  unattached 
people  now  and  then  can  do.  They  might 
have  gone  out  in  a  car  —  but  they  chose 
the  railroad,  with  a  walk  at  the  end  —  on 
the  principle  that  no  one  can  know  and 
love  a  country  who  does  not  press  its 
earth  beneath  his  feet, —  the  Doctor 
would  probably  have  said,  "  lay  his  head 
upon  its  bosom. "  By  an  accident  —  thevj 

[   5   1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

missed  a  train  —  they  found  themselves  at 
sunset  of  a  beautiful  day  in  a  small  village, 
and  with  no  possible  way  of  getting  back 
to  Paris  that  night  unless  they  chose  to 
walk  fifteen  miles  to  the  nearest  railway 
junction.  After  a  long  day's  tramp  that 
seemed  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 

So  they  looked  about  to  find  a  shelter 
for  the  night.  The  village  —  it  was  only 
a  hamlet  —  had  no  hotel,  no  cafe,  even. 
Finally  an  old  peasant  said  that  old  Mother 
Servin  —  a  widow  —  living  a  mile  up  the 
road  —  had  a  big  house,  lived  alone,  and 
could  take  them  in, —  if  she  wanted  to, — 
he  could  not  say  that  she  would. 

It  seemed  to  them  worth  trying,  so  they 
started  off  in  high  spirits  to  tramp  another 
mile,  deciding  that,  if  worse  became  worst 
—  well  —  the  night  was  warm  —  they 
could  sleep  by  the  roadside  under  the  stars. 

It  was  near  the  hour  when  it  should 
have  been  dark  —  but  in  France  at  that 
season  one  can  almost  read  out  of  doors 
until  nine  —  when  they  found  the  place. 
With  some  delay  the  gate  in  the  stone  wall 
was  opened,  and  they  were  face  to  face 
with  the  old  widow. 

It  was  a  long  argument,  but  the  Doctor 
had  a  winning  way,  and  at  the  end  they 
[  6  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

were  taken  in, —  more,  they  were  fed  in 
the  big  clean  kitchen,  and  then  each  was 
sheltered  in  a  huge  room,  with  cement 
floor,  scrupulously  clean,  with  the  quaint 
old  furniture  and  the  queer  appointments 
of  a  French  farmhouse. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  Doctor 
threw  open  the  heavy  wooden  shutters  to 
his  window,  he  gave  a  whistle  of  delight 
to  find  himself  looking  out  into  what 
seemed  to  be  a  French  Paradise  —  and 
better  than  that  he  had  never  asked. 

It  was  a  wilderness.  Way  off  in  the 
distance  he  got  glimpses  of  broken  walls 
with  all  kinds  of  green  things  creeping  and 
climbing,  and  hanging  on  for  life.  Inside 
the  walls  there  was  a  riot  of  flowers  — 
hollyhocks  and  giroflees,  dahlias  and  phlox, 
poppies  and  huge  daisies,  and  roses  every 
where,  even  climbing  old  tree  trunks,  and 
sprawling  all  over  the  garden  front  of  the 
rambling  house.  The  edges  of  the  paths 
had  green  borders  that  told  of  Corbeil 
d'Argent  in  midwinter,  and  violets  in 
early  spring.  He  leaned  out  and  looked 
along  the  house.  It  was  just  a  jumble  of 
all  sorts  of  buildings  which  had  evidently 
been  added  at  different  times.  It  seemed 
to  be  on  half  a  dozen  elevations,  and  no 

[  7  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

two  windows  were  of  the  same  size,  while 
here  and  there  an  outside  staircase  led  up 
into  a  loft. 

Once  he  had  taken  it  in  he  dressed  like 
a  flash  —  he  could  not  get  out  into  that 
garden  quickly  enough,  to  pray  the  Widow 
to  serve  coffee  under  a  huge  tree  in  the 
centre  of  the  garden,  about  the  trunk  of 
which  a  rude  table  had  been  built,  and  it 
was  there  that  the  Divorcee  found  him 
when  she  came  out,  simply  glowing  with 
enthusiasm  —  the  house,  the  garden,  the 
Widow,  the  day  —  everything  was  per 
fect. 

While  they  were  taking  their  coffee, 
poured  from  the  earthen  jug,  in  the  thick 
old  Rouen  cups,  the  Divorcee  said: 

"  How  I'd  love  to  own  a  place  like  this. 
No  one  would  ever  dream  of  building  such 
a  house.  It  has  taken  centuries  of  accu 
mulated  needs  to  expand  it  into  being.  If 
one  tried  to  do  the  thing  all  at  once  it 
would  look  too  on-purpose.  This  place 
looks  like  a  happy  combination  of  circum 
stances  which  could  not  help  itself." 

"  Well,  why  not?  It  might  be  possible 
to  have  just  this.  Let's  ask  the  Widow." 

So,  when  they  were  sitting  over  their 
cigarettes,  and  the  old  woman  was  clear- 
I  8  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

ing  the  table,  the  Doctor  looked  her  over, 
and  considered  the  road  of  approach. 

She  was  a  rugged  old  woman,  well  on 
toward  eighty,  with  a  bronzed,  weather 
worn  face,  abundant  coarse  gray  hair,  a 
heavy  shapeless  figure,  but  a  firm  bearing, 
in  spite  of  her  rounded  back.  As  far  as 
they  could  see,  they  were  alone  on  the 
place  with  her.  The  Doctor  decided  to 
jump  right  into  the  subject. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  you 
don't  want  to  sell  this  place?  " 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  a  moment 
with  her  sharp  dark  eyes. 

"  But,  yes,  Monsieur''  she  replied.  "  I 
should  like  it  very  well,  only  it  is  not  pos 
sible.  No  one  would  be  willing  to  pay 
my  price.  Oh,  no,  no  one.  No,  indeed." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  how  do  you 
know  that?  What  is  the  price?  —  Is  it 
permitted  to  ask?  " 

The  old  woman  hesitated, —  started  to 
speak  —  changed  her  mind,  and  turned 
away,  muttering.  "  Oh,  no,  Monsieur, — 
it  is  not  worth  the  trouble  —  no  one  will 
ever  pay  my  price." 

The  Doctor  jumped  up,  laughing,  ran 
after  her,  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  led 
her  back  to  the  table. 

[  9  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  Now,  come,  come,  Mother,"  he  re 
marked,  "  let  us  hear  the  price  at  any  rate. 
I  am  so  curious." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Widow,  "  it  is  like 
this.  I  would  like  to  get  for  it  what  my 
brother  paid  for  it,  when  he  bought  it  at 
the  death  of  my  father  —  it  was  to  settle 
with  the  rest  of  the  heirs  —  we  were  eight 
then.  They  are  all  dead  but  me.  But 
no,  no  one  will  ever  pay  that  price,  so  I 
may  as  well  let  it  go  to  my  niece.  She  is 
the  last.  She  doesn't  need  it.  She  has 
land  enough.  The  cultivator  has  a  hard 
time  these  days.  It  is  as  much  as  I  can 
do  to  make  the  old  place  feed  me  and  pay 
the  taxes,  and  I  am  getting  old.  But  no 
one  will  ever  pay  the  price,  and  what  will 
my  brother  think  of  me  when  the  bon  Dieu 
calls  me,  if  I  sell  it  for  less  than  he  paid? 
As  for  that,  I  don't  know  what  he'll  say 
to  me  for  selling  it  at  all.  But  I  am  get 
ting  old  to  live  here  alone  —  all  alone. 
But  no  one  will  ever  pay  the  price.  So  I 
may  as  well  die  here,  and  then  my  brother 
can't  blame  me.  But  it  is  lonely  now,  and 
I  am  growing  too  old.  Besides,  I  don't 
suppose  you  want  to  buy  it.  What  would 
a  gentleman  do  with  this?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  don't 
[  10  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

really  know  what  a  gentleman  would  do 
with  it,"  and  he  added,  under  his  breath, 
in  English,  "  but  I  know  mighty  well  what 
this  fellow  could  do  with  it,  if  he  could 
get  it,"  and  he  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette. 

The  keen  old  eyes  had  watched  his  face. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  buy  it?  " 
she  persisted. 

"  Well,"  responded  the  Doctor,  "  how 
can  a  poor  man  like  me  say,  if  you  don't 
care  to  name  your  price,  and  unless  that 
price  is  within  reason?  " 

After  some  minutes  of  hesitation  the 
old  woman  drew  a  deep  breath.  '  Well," 
she  said,  with  the  determination  of  one 
who  expected  to  be  scoffed  at,  "  I  won't 
take  a  sou  less  than  my  brother  paid." 

"  Come  on,  Mother,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"what  did  your  brother  pay?  No  non 
sense,  you  know." 

"  Well,  if  you  must  know  —  it  was  FIVE 
THOUSAND  FRANCS,  and  I  can't  and  won't 
sell  it  for  less.  There,  now !  " 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

The  Doctor  and  his  companion  avoided 
one  another's  eyes.  After  a  while,  he 
said  in  an  undertone,  in  English:  "  By 
Jove,  I'm  going  to  buy  it." 

"  No,  no,"  remonstrated  his  companion, 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

her  eyes  gazing  down  the  garden  vista  to 
where  the  wistaria  and  clematis  and  flam 
ing  trumpet  flower  flaunted  on  the  old 
wall.  "  I  am  going  to  have  it  —  I  thought 
of  it  first.  I  want  it." 

uSo  do  I,"  laughed  the  Doctor. 
"  Never  wanted  anything  more  in  all  my 
life." 

"  For  how  long,"  she  asked,  "  would  a 
rover  like  you  want  this?  " 

"  Rover  yourself !  And  you?  Besides 
what  difference  does  it  make  how  long  I 
want  it  —  since  I  want  it  now?  I  want 
to  give  a  party  —  haven't  given  a  party 
since  —  since  Class  Day." 

The  Divorcee  sighed.  Still  gazing 
down  the  garden  she  said  quietly :  "  How 
well  I  remember  —  ninety-two !  " 

Then  there  was  another  silence  before 
she  turned  to  him  suddenly:  "  See  here 
• —  all  this  is  very  irregular  —  so,  that  be 
ing  the  case  —  why  shouldn't  we  buy  it  to 
gether?  We  know  each  other.  Neither 
of  us  will  ever  stay  here  long.  One  sum 
mer  apiece  will  satisfy  us,  though  it  is 
lovely.  Be  a  sport.  We'll  draw  lots  as 
to  who  is  to  have  the  first  party." 

The  Doctor  waved  the  old  woman 
away.  Her  keen  eyes  watched  too  sharply. 

[    12    ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

Then,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table, 
they  had  a  long  and  heated  argument. 
Probably  there  were  more  things  touched 
on  than  the  garden.  Who  knows?  At 
the  end  of  it  the  Divorcee  walked  away 
down  that  garden  vista,  and  the  old  woman 
was  called  and  the  Doctor  took  her  at  her 
word.  And  out  of  that  arrangement 
emerged  the  scheme  which  resulted  in  our 
finding  ourselves,  a  year  later,  within  the 
old  walls  of  that  French  garden. 

Of  course  a  year's  work  had  been  done 
on  the  interior,  and  Doctor  and  Divorcee 
had  scoured  the  department  for  old  furni 
ture.  Water  had  been  brought  a  great 
distance,  a  garage  had  been  built  with  serv 
ants'  quarters  over  it  —  there  were  no 
servants  in  the  house, —  but  the  look  of 
the  place,  we  were  assured,  had  not  been 
changed,  and  both  Doctor  and  Divorcee 
declared  that  they  had  had  the  year  of 
their  lives.  Well,  if  they  had,  the  place 
showed  it. 

But,  as  Fate  would  have  it,  the  second 
night  we  sat  down  to  dinner  in  that  gar 
den,  news  had  come  of  the  assassination 
of  Franz  Ferdinand-Charles-Louis  Joseph- 
Marie  d'Autriche-Este,  whom  the  tragic 
death  of  Prince  Rudolphe,  almost  exactly 

[   13  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

twenty-four  years  and  six  months  earlier 
to  a  day,  had  made  Crown  Prince  of  Aus 
tria-Hungary  —  and  the  tone  of  our 
gathering  was  changed.  From  that  day 
the  party  threatened  to  become  a  little 
Bedlam,  and  the  garden  a  rostrum. 

In  the  earlier  days  it  did  not  make  so 
much  difference.  The  talk  was  good. 
We  were  a  travelled  group,  and  what  with 
reminiscences  of  people  and  places,  and 
the  scandal  of  courts,  it  was  far  from  be 
ing  dull.  But  as  the  days  went  on,  and 
the  war  clouds  began  to  gather,  the  over 
charged  air  seemed  to  get  on  the  nerves 
of  the  entire  group,  and  instead  of  the 
peaceful  summer  we  had  counted  upon, 
every  one  of  us  seemed  to  live  in  his  own 
particular  kind  of  fever.  Every  one  of 
us,  down  to  the  Youngster,  had  fixed  ideas, 
deep-set  theories,  and  convictions  as  differ 
ent  as  our  characters,  our  lives,  our  call 
ings,  and  our  faiths.  We  were  all  Cos 
mopolitan  Americans,  but  ready  to  spread 
the  Eagle,  if  necessary,  and  all  of  us, 
except  the  Violinist,  of  New  England 
extraction,  which  means  really  of  English 
blood,  and  that  will  show  when  the  screws 
are  put  on.  We  had  never  thought  of  the 
Violinist  as  not  one  of  us,  but  he  was  really 

[  14  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

of  Polish  origin.  His  great-grandfather 
had  been  a  companion  of  Adam  Czartor- 
iski  in  the  uprising  of  1830,  and  had  gone 
to  the  States  when  the  amnesty  was  not 
extended  to  his  chief  after  that  rebellion, 
Poland's  last,  had  been  stamped  out. 

As  well  as  I  can  remember  it  was  the 
night  of  August  6th  that  the  first  serious 
dispute  arose.  England  had  declared 
war.  All  our  male  servants  had  left  us 
except  two  American  chauffeurs,  and  a 
couple  of  old  outside  men.  Two  of  our 
four  cars,  and  all  our  horses  but  one  had 
been  requisitioned.  That  did  not  upset 
us.  We  had  taken  on  the  wives  of  some 
of  the  men,  among  them  Angele,  the  pretty 
wife  of  one  of  the  French  chauffeurs,  and 
her  two-months-old  baby  into  the  bargain. 
We  still  had  two  cars,  that,  at  a  pinch, 
would  carry  the  party,  and  we  still  had  one 
mount  in  case  of  necessity. 

The  question  arose  as  to  whether  we 
should  break  up  and  make  for  the  nearest 
port  while  we  could,  or  "  stick  it  out." 
It  had  been  finally  agreed  not  to  evacuate 
—  yet.  One  does  not  often  get  such  a 
chance  to  see  a  country  at  war,  and  we 
were  all  ardent  spectators,  and  all  unat 
tached.  I  imagine  not  one  of  us  had  at 

[  15  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

that  time  any  idea  of  being  useful  —  the 
stupendousness  of  it  all  had  not  dawned 
on  any  of  us  —  unless  it  was  the  Doctor. 

But  after  the  decision  of  "  stick  "  had 
been  passed  unanimously,  the  Critic,  who 
was  a  bit  of  a  sentimentalist,  and  if  he 
were  anything  else  was  a  Norman  Angel- 
lite,  stuck  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
remarked:  "After  all,  it  is  perfectly  safe 
to  stay,  especially  now  that  England  is 
coming  in." 

"  You  think  so?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Sure,"  smiled  the  Critic.  "  The  Ger 
mans  will  never  cross  the  French  frontier 
this  time.  This  is  not  1870." 

u  Won't  they,  and  isn't  it?  "  replied  the 
Doctor  sharply. 

"  They  never  can  get  by  Verdun  and 
Belfort." 

"  Never  said  they  could,"  remarked  the 
Doctor,  with  a  tone  as  near  to  a  sneer  as 
a  good-natured  host  can  allow  himself. 
"  But  they'll  invade  fast  enough.  I  know 
what  I  am  talking  about." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  the 
Critic,  "  that  a  nation  like  Germany  — 
I'm  talking  now  about  the  people,  the 
country  that  has  been  the  hot  bed  of  Social 
ism, —  will  stand  for  a  war  of  invasion?  " 
[  16  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

That  started  the  Doctor  off.  He  flayed 
the  theorists,  the  people  who  reasoned 
with  their  emotions  and  not  their  brains, 
the  mob  that  looked  at  externals,  and 
never  saw  the  fires  beneath,  the  throng 
that  was  unable  to  understand  anything 
outside  its  own  horizon,  the  mass  that  pre 
tended  to  read  the  history  of  the  world, 
and  because  it  changed  its  clothes  imagined 
that  it  had  changed  its  spirit. 

"  Why,  I've  lived  in  Germany,"  he 
cried.  "  I  was  educated  there.  I  know 
them.  I  have  the  misfortune  to  under 
stand  them.  They'll  stick  together  and 
Socialism  go  hang  —  as  long  as  there  is  a 
hope  of  victory.  The  Confederation  was 
cemented  in  the  blood  of  victory.  It  can 
only  be  dissolved  in  the  blood  of  defeat. 
They  are  a  great,  a  well-disciplined,  and 
an  obedient  people." 

"  One  would  think  you  admired  them 
and  their  military  system,"  remarked  the 
Critic,  a  bit  crest-fallen  at  the  attack. 

"  I  may  not,  but  I'll  tell  you  one  sure 
thing  if  you  want  a  good  circus  you've  got 
to  train  your  animals.  The  Kaiser  has 
been  a  corking  ringmaster." 

Of  course  this  got  a  laugh,  and  though 
both  Critic  and  Journalist  tried  to  strike 

[  17  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

fire  again  with  words  like  "  democracy  " 
and  "  civilization,"  the  Doctor  had  cooled 
down,  and  nothing  could  stir  him  again 
that  night. 

Still  the  discord  had  been  sown.  I  sup 
pose  the  dinner-table  talk  was  only  a 
sample  of  what  was  going  on,  in  that 
month,  all  over  the  world.  It  did  not  help 
matters  that  as  the  days  went  on  we  all 
realized  that  the  Doctor  had  been  right  — 
that  France  was  to  be  invaded,  not  across 
her  own  proper  frontier,  but  across  unpro 
tected  Belgium.  This  seemed  so  atrocious 
to  most  of  us  that  indignation  could  only 
express  itself  in  abuse.  There  was  not  a 
night  that  the  dinner-table  talk  was  not 
bitter.  You  see  the  Doctor  did  not  expect 
the  world  ever  to  be  perfect  —  did  not 
know  that  he  wanted  it  to  be  —  believed 
in  the  struggle.  On  the  other  hand  the 
Critic,  and  in  a  certain  sense  the  Journalist, 
in  spite  of  their  experiences,  were  more  or 
less  Utopian,  and  the  Sculptor  and  the 
Violinist  purely  spectators. 

No  need  to  go  into  the  details  of  the 
heated  arguments.  They  were  only  the 
echo  of  what  all  the  world, —  that  had 
cradled  itself  into  the  belief  that  a  great 
war  among  the  great  nations  had  become, 
[  18  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

for  economic  as  well  as  humanitarian  rea 
sons,  impossible, —  were,  I  imagine,  at  this 
time  saying. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember  it  was  on 
August  2Oth  that  the  climax  came.  Liege 
had  fallen.  The  English  Expedition  had 
landed,  and  was  marching  on  Belgium. 
A  victorious  German  army  had  goose- 
stepped  into  defenseless  Brussels,  and  was 
sweeping  out  toward  the  French  frontier. 
The  French  advance  into  Alsace  had  been 
a  blunder. 

The  Doctor  remarked  that  "  the  Eng 
lish  had  landed  twelve  days  too  late,"  and 
the  Journalist  drew  a  graphic,  and  purely 
imaginary,  picture  of  the  pathos  of  the 
Belgians  straining  their  eyes  in  vain  to  the 
West  for  the  coming  of  the  men  in  khaki, 
and  unfortunately  he  let  himself  expatiate 
a  bit  on  German  methods. 

The  spark  touched  the  Doctor  off. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  said,  "  all  you  sentimen 
talists  read  the  History  of  the  World  with 
your  intellects  in  your  breeches  pockets. 
War  is  not  a  game  for  babies.  It  is  war 
—  it  is  not  sport.  You  chaps  think  war 
can  be  prevented.  All  I  ask  you  is  —  why 
hasn't  it  been  prevented?  In  every  gen 
eration  that  we  know  anything  about  there 

c  19  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

have  been  some  pretty  fine  men  who  have 
been  of  your  opinion  —  Erasmus  for  one, 
and  how  many  others?  But  since  the 
generations  have  contented  themselves 
with  talking,  and  not  talked  war  out  of  the 
problem,  why,  I  can't  see,  for  my  part, 
that  Germany's  way  is  not  as  good  as  any. 
She  is  in  to  win,  and  so  are  all  the  rest  of 
them.  Schools  of  War  are  like  the 
Schools  of  Art  you  chaps  talk  so  much 
about  —  it  does  not  make  much  difference 
what  school  one  belongs  to  —  the  only  im 
portant  thing  is  making  good." 

"  One  would  think,"  said  the  Journalist, 
"  that  you  liked  such  a  war." 

;<  Well,  I  don't  even  know  that  I  can 
deny  that.  I  would  not  deliberately 
choose  it.  But  I  am  willing  to  accept  it, 
and  I  am  not  a  bit  sentimental  about  it. 
I  am  not  even  sure  that  it  was  not  needed. 
The  world  has  let  the  Kaiser  sit  twenty- 
five  years  on  a  throne  announcing  himself 
as  '  God's  anointed.'  His  pretensions 
have  been  treated  seriously  by  all  the 
democracies  of  the  world.  What  for? 
Purely  for  personal  gain.  We  have  come 
to  a  pass  where  there  is  little  a  man  won't 
do  —  for  personal  gain.  The  business  of 
the  world,  and  its  diplomacy,  have  all  be- 

[    20    ] 


How  WE  CAML  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

come  so  complicated  and  corrupt  that  a 
large  percentage  of  the  brains  of  honest 
mankind  are  little  willing  to  touch  either. 
We  need  shaking  up  —  all  of  us.  If 
nothing  can  make  man  realize  that  he  was 
not  born  to  be  merely  happy  and  get  rich, 
or  to  have  a  fine  old  time,  why,  such  a 
complete  upheaval  as  this  seems  to  me  to 
be  necessary,  and  for  me  —  if  this  war  can 
rip  off,  with  its  shrapnel,  the  selfishness 
with  which  prosperity  has  encrusted  the 
lucky:  if  it  can  explode  our  false  values 
with  its  bombs:  if  it  can  break  down  our 
absurd  pretensions  with  its  cannon, —  all  I 
can  say  is  that  Germany  will  have  done 
missionary  work  for  the  whole  world  — 
herself  included." 

Before  he  had  done,  we  were  all  on  our 
feet  shouting  at  him,  all  but  the  Lawyer, 
who  smiled  into  his  coffee  cup. 

"  Why,"  cried  the  Critic,  in  anger,  "  one 
would  think  you  held  a  brief  for  them !  " 

"  I  do  NOT/'  snapped  the  Doctor,  "  but 
I  don't  dislike  them  any  more  than  I  do 
—  well,"  catching  himself  up  with  a  laugh, 
"  lots  of  other  people." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  the 
gentle  voice  of  the  Divorcee  at  his  elbow, 
"  that  you  calmly  face  the  idea  of  the  hun- 

C    21    ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

dreds  of  thousands  of  men, —  well  and 
strong  to-day  —  dead  to-morrow, —  the 
thought  of  the  mothers  who  have  borne 
their  sons  in  pain,  and  bred  them  in  love, 
only  to  fling  them  before  the  cannon?  " 

"  For  what,  after  all,  are  we  born?" 
said  the  Doctor.  "  Where  we  die,  or 
when  is  a  trifle,  since  die  we  must.  But 
why  we  die  and  how  is  vital.  It  is  not 
only  vital  to  the  man  that  goes  —  it  is 
vital  to  the  race.  It  is  the  struggle,  it  is 
the  fight,  which,  no  matter  what  form  it 
takes,  makes  life  worth  living.  Men 
struggle  for  money.  Financiers  strangle 
one  another  at  the  Bourse.  People  look 
on  and  applaud,  in  spite  of  themselves. 
That  is  exciting.  It  is  not  uplifting.  But 
for  men  just  like  you  and  me  to  march  out 
to  face  death  for  an  idea,  for  honor,  for 
duty,  that  very  fact  ennobles  the  race." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "  I  see.  The 
Doctor  enjoys  the  drama  of  life,  but  he 
does  not  enjoy  the  purely  domestic  drama." 

"  And  out  of  all  this,"  said  the  Trained 
Nurse,  in  her  level  voice,  "  you  are  leaving 
the  Almighty.  He  gave  us  a  world  full 
of  beauty,  full  of  work,  full  of  interest, 
and  he  gave  us  capacities  to  enjoy  it,  and 
endowed  us  with  emotions  which  make  it 

[    22    ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

worth  while  to  live  and  to  die.  He  gave 
us  simple  laws  —  they  are  clear  enough  — 
they  mark  sharply  the  line  between  good 
and  evil.  He  left  us  absolutely  free  to 
choose.  And  behold  what  man  has  made 
of  it!" 

"  I  deny  the  statement,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  That's  easy,"  laughed  the  Journalist. 

"  I  believe,'*  said  the  Doctor,  impa 
tiently,  "  that  no  good  comes  but  through 
evil.  Read  your  Bible." 

"  I  don't  want  to  read  it  with  your  eyes," 
replied  the  Journalist,  and  marched  testily 
down  the  path  toward  the  house. 

"Well,"  snapped  the  Doctor,  "if  I 
read  it  with  yours,  I  should  call  on  the 
Almighty  to  smite  this  planet  with  his  fires 
and  send  us  spinning,  a  flaming  brand 
through  space,  to  annihilation  —  the  great 
scheme  would  seem  to  me  a  failure  —  but 
I  don't  believe  it  is."  And  off  he  marched 
in  the  other  direction. 

The  Lawyer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
suppressed,  as  well  as  he  could,  a  smile. 
The  Youngster,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  recited  under  his  breath : 

"  And  as  he  sat,  all  suddenly  there  rolled, 
"  From  where  the  woman  wept  upon  the  sod, 
"  Satan's  deep  voice,  '  Oh  Thou  unhappy  God.'  " 

,  [  23  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  Lawyer. 

;<  What's  that?  "  asked  the  Violinist 

"  Only  the  last  three  lines  of  a  great 
little  poem  by  a  little  great  Irishman  named 
Stephens  —  entitled  4  What  Satan  Said.'  " 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "  the  Doc 
tor  is  probably  right.  It  all  depends  on 
one's  point  of  view." 

"  And  one's  temperament,"  said  the 
Violinist. 

"  And  one's  education,"  said  the  Critic. 

Just  here  the  Doctor  came  back, —  and 
he  came  back  his  smiling  self.  He  made 
a  dash  down  the  path  to  where  the  Journal 
ist  was  evidently  sulking,  went  up  behind 
him,  threw  an  arm  over  his  shoulder,  and 
led  him  back  into  the  circle. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  you  are  all  my 
guests.  I  am  unreasonably  fond  of  you, 
even  if  we  can't  see  Life  from  the  same 
point  of  view.  Man  as  an  individual,  and 
Man  as  a  part  of  the  Scheme  are  two  dif 
ferent  things.  I  asked  you  down  here  to 
enjoy  yourselves,  not  to  argue.  I  apolo 
gize  —  all  my  fault  —  unpardonable  of 
me.  Come  now  —  we  have  •  decided  to 
stay  as  long  as  we  can  —  we  are  all  inter 
ested.  It  is  not  every  generation  that  has 

[    24    ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

the  honor  to  sit  by,  and  watch  two  systems 
meet  at  the  crossroads  and  dispute  the  pas 
sage  to  the  Future.  We'll  agree  not  to 
discuss  the  ethics  of  the  matter  again.  If 
the  men  marching  out  there  to  the  frontier 
can  agree  to  face  the  cannon  —  and  there 
are  as  many  opinions  there  as  here  — 
surely  we  can  look  on  in  silence." 

And  on  that  agreement  we  all  went  to 
bed. 

But  on  the  following  day,  as  we  sat  in 
the  garden  after  dinner,  our  attempts  to 
"  keep  off  the  grass  "  were  miserably  vis 
ible.  They  cast  a  constraint  on  the  party. 
Every  topic  seemed  to  lead  to  the  forbid 
den  enclosure.  It  was  at  a  very  critical 
moment  that  the  Sculptor,  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  a  bench,  in  a  real  Alma  Tadema 
attitude,  filled  the  dangerous  pause 
with: 

"  It  was  in  the  days  of  our  Lord  1348 
that  there  happened  in  Florence,  the  finest 
city  in  Italy  — " 

And  the  Violinist,  who  was  leaning 
against  a  tree,  touched  an  imaginary 
mandolin,  concluding:  "A  most  terrible 
plague." 

The  Critic  leaped  to  his  feet. 

[  25  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  A  corking  idea,"  he  cried. 

"  Mine,  mine  own,"  replied  the  Sculp 
tor.  "  I  propose  that  what  those  who,  in 
the  days  of  the  terrible  plague,  took  refuge 
at  the  Villa  Palmieri,  did  to  pass  away  the 
time,  we,  who  are  watching  the  war  ap 
proach  —  as  our  host  says  it  will  —  do 
here.  Let  us,  instead  of  disputing,  each 
tell  a  story  after  dinner  —  to  calm  our 
nerves, —  or  otherwise." 

At  first  every  one  hooted. 

"  I  could  never  tell  a  story,"  objected 
the  Divorcee. 

"  Of  course  you  can,"  declared  the 
Journalist.  u  Everybody  in  the  world  has 
one  story  to  tell." 

"  Sure,"  exclaimed  the  Lawyer.  "  No 
embargo  on  subjects?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  smiled  the  Doctor. 
"  There  is  always  the  Youngster." 

"  You  go  to  blazes,"  was  the  Young 
ster's  response,  and  he  added:  "No  war 
stories.  Draw  that  line." 

"Then,"  laughed  the  Doctor,  "let's 
make  it  tales  of  our  own,  our  native  land." 
And  there  the  matter  rested.  Only,  when 
we  separated  that  night,  each  of  us  carried 
a  sealed  envelope  containing  a  numbered 

[  26  ] 


How  WE  CAME  INTO  THE  GARDEN 

slip,  which  decided  the  question  of  prece 
dence,  and  it  was  agreed  that  no  one  but 
the  story-teller  should  know  who  was  to 
be  the  evening's  entertainer,  until  story 
telling  hour  arrived  with  the  coffee  and 
cigarettes. 


I 

THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

IT  HAPPENED  AT  MIDNGHT 

THE  TALE  OF  A  BRIDE'S  NEW  HOME 

THE  daytimes  were  not  ever  very  bad. 
Short-handed  in  the  pretty  garden,  every 
one  did  a  little  work.  The  Lawyer  was 
passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and  the 
Youngster  did  most  of  the  errands.  The 
Sculptor  had  found  some  clay,  and  loved 
to  surprise  us  at  night  with  a  new  centre 
piece  for  the  table,  and  the  Divorcee  spent 
most  of  her  time  tending  Angele's  baby, 
while  the  Doctor  and  the  Nurse  were 
eternally  fussing  over  new  kinds  of  band 
ages  and  if  ever  we  got  together,  it  was 
usually  for  a  little  reading  aloud  at  tea- 
time,  or  a  little  music.  The  spirt  of  dis 
cussion  seemed  to  keep  as  far  away  before 
the  lights  were  up  as  did  the  spirit  of  war, 
and  nothing  could  be  farther  than  that 
appeared. 

The  next  day  we  were  unusually  quiet. 

[  29  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Most  of  us  kept  in  our  rooms  in  the 
afternoon.  There  were  those  stories  to 
think  over,  and  that  we  all  took  it  so  seri 
ously  proved  how  very  much  we  had  been 
needing  some  real  thing  to  do.  We  got 
through  dinner  very  comfortably. 

There  was  little  news  in  the  papers  that 
day  except  enthusiastic  accounts  of  the 
reception  of  the  British  troops  by  the 
French.  It  was  lovely  to  see  the  two  races 
that  had  met  on  so  many  battle  fields  — 
conquered,  and  been  conquered  by  one  an 
other  —  embracing  with  enthusiasm.  It 
was  to  the  credit  of  all  of  us  that  we  did 
not  make  the  inevitable  reflections,  but 
only  saw  the  humor  and  charm  of  the 
thing,  and  remembered  the  fears  that  had 
prevented  the  plans  of  tunnelling  the 
channel,  only  to  find  them  humorous. 

The  coffee  had  been  placed  on  the  table. 
The  Trained  Nurse,  as  usual,  sat  behind 
the  tray,  and  we  each  went  and  took  our 
cup,  found  a  comfgrtable  seat  in  the  circle 
under  the  trees,  where  a  few  yellow  lan 
terns  swung  in  the  soft  air. 

Then  the  Youngster  pulled  a  white  head 
band  with  a  huge  "  Number  One  "  on  it, 
out  of  his  pocket,  placed  it  on  his  head 
after  the  manner  of  the  French  Conscripts, 

[  30  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

struck  an  attitude  in  the  middle  of  the 
circle,  drew  his  chair  deftly  under  him,  and 
with  the  air  of  an  experienced  monologist 
began : 

Not  so  very  many  years  ago  there  was 
a  pretty  wedding  at  Trinity  Church  in  Bos 
ton.  It  was  quite  the  sort  of  marriage 
Bostonians  believe  in.  The  man  was  a 
rising  lawyer,  rather  a  sceptic  on  all  sorts 
of  questions,  as  most  of  us  chaps  pride 
ourselves  on  being,  when  we  come  out  of 
college.  They  were  married  in  church  to 
please  the  Woman.  What  odds  did  it 
make? 

Before  they  were  married  they  had  de 
cided  to  live  outside  the  city.  She  wanted 
a  garden  and  an  old  house.  He  did  not 
care  where  they  lived  so  long  as  they  lived 
together.  Very  proper  of  him,  too. 
They  spent  the  last  year  of  their  engaged 
life,  the  nicest  year  of  some  girls'  lives,  I 
have  heard  —  in  hunting  the  place.  What 
they  finally  settled  on  was  an  old  colonial 
house  with  a  colonnaded  front,  and  a 
round  tower  at  each  end,  standing  back 
from  the  road,  and  approached  by  a  wide 
circular  drive.  It  was  large,  substantial, 
with  great  possibilities,  and  plenty  of 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

ground.  It  had  been  unoccupied  for  many 
years,  and  the  place  had  an  evil  report, 
and,  at  the  time  when  they  first  saw  it, 
appeared  to  deserve  it. 

He  had  looked  it  over.  The  situation 
was  healthy.  It  was  convenient  to  the 
city.  He  could  make  it  in  his  car  in  less 
than  forty-five  minutes.  They  saw  what 
could  be  done  with  the  place,  and  did  not 
concern  themselves  with  why  other  people 
had  not  cared  to  live  there.  Architects, 
interior  decorators,  and  landscape  gar 
deners  were  put  to  work  on  it,  and,  even 
before  the  wedding,  the  place  was  well  on 
toward  its  habitable  stage. 

Then  they  were  married,  and,  quite 
correctly,  went  abroad  to  float  in  a  gon 
dola  on  the  Grand  Canal  —  together;  to 
cross  the  Gemmi  —  together;  to  stroll 
about  Pompeii  and  cross  to  Capri  —  to 
gether;  and  then  ravage  antiquity  shops  in 
Paris  —  together.  They  .returned  in  the 
early  days  of  a  glorious  September.  The 
house  was  ready  for  its  master  and  mis 
tress  to  lay  the  touch  of  their  personality 
on  it,  and  put  in  place  the  trophies  of  their 
Wedding  Journey. 

The  evil  look  the  house  once  had  was 
gone. 

[  32  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

A  few  old  trees  had  been  cut  down  round 
it  to  let  in  the  glorious  autumn  sun  all  over 
the  house,  and  when,  on  their  first  morn 
ing,  after  a  good  sound,  well-earned  sleep, 
they  took  their  coffee  on  the  terrace  off 
the  breakfast  room,  under  a  yellow  awn 
ing,  they  certainly  did  not  think,  if  they 
ever  had,  of  the  mysterious  rumors  against 
the  house  which  had  been  whispered  about 
when  they  first  bought  it.  To  them  it 
seemed  that  they  had  never  seen  a  gayer 
place. 

But  on  the  second  night,  just  as  the 
Woman  was  putting  her  book  aside,  and 
had  a  hand  stretched  out  to  shut  off  the 
light,  she  stopped  —  a  carriage  was  com 
ing  up  the  drive.  She  sat  up,  and  listened 
for  the  bell.  It  did  not  ring.  After  a 
few  moments  —  as  there  was  absolutely  no 
sound  of  the  carriage  passing  —  she  got 
up,  and  gently  pushed  the  shutter  —  her 
room  wras  on  the  front  —  there  was  noth 
ing  there,  so,  attaching  no  importance  to  it, 
she  went  quietly  to  bed,  put  out  her  light, 
just  noticing  as  she  did  so,  that  it  was 
midnight,  and  went  to  sleep.  In  the  morn 
ing,  the  incident  made  so  little  impression 
on  her,  that  she  forgot  to  even  mention 
it. 

[  33   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

The  next  night,  by  some  queer  trick  of 
memory,  just  as  she  went  to  bed,  the  thing 
came  back  to  her,  and  she  was  surprised 
to  find  that  she  had  no  sleep  in  her.  In 
stead  of  that  she  kept  looking  at  the  clock, 
and  just  before  twelve,  cold  chills  began 
to  go  down  her  back,  when  she  heard  the 
rapid  approach  of  a  carriage  —  this  time 
she  was  conscious  that  her  hearing  was  so 
keen  that  she  knew  there  were  two  horses. 
She  listened  intently  —  no  doubt  about  it 
—  the  carriage  had  stopped  at  the  door. 

Then  there  was  a  silence. 

She  was  just  convincing  herself  that 
there  must  be  some  sort  of  echo  which 
made  it  appear  that  a  team  passing  in  the 
road  had  come  up  the  drive  —  when  she 
was  suddenly  sure  that  she  heard  a  hurried 
step  in  the  corridor  —  it  passed  the  door. 
Now  she  was  naturally  a  very  unimagi 
native  person,  and  had  never  had  occasion 
to  know  fear.  So,  after  a  bit,  she  put  out 
her  light,  saying  to  herself  that  a  belated 
servant  was  busy  with  some  neglected 
work  —  nothing  more  likely  —  and  she 
went  to  sleep. 

Again  the  morning  sunlight,  the  Man's 
gay  companionship,  the  hundreds  of  de 
lightful  things  to  do,  wiped  out  that  bad 
[  34  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

quarter  of  an  hour,   and  again  it  never 
occurred  to  her  to  mention  it. 

The  next  night  the  remembrance  came 
back  so  vividly  after  the  Man  had  gone 
to  his  room,  that  she  regretted  she  had 
not  at  least  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  a 
carriage  pass  in  the  night.  Of  course  she 
was  sure  that  he  had  not.  He  was  such 
a  sound  sleeper.  Besides,  it  was  not  im 
portant.  If  he  had,  he  would  not  have 
been  nervous  about  it.  Still,  she  could 
not  sleep,  and,  just  before  the  dining  room 
clock  began  to  chime  midnight  —  she  had 
never  heard  it  before,  and  that  she  heard 
it  now  was  a  proof  of  how  her  whole  body 
was  listening — again  came  the  rapid 
tread  of  running  horses.  This  time  every 
hair  stood  up  on  her  head,  and  before 
she  could  control  herself,  she  called  out 
toward  the  open  door :  "  Dearest,  are  you 
awake?  " 

Almost  before  she  had  the  words  out 
he  was  standing  smiling  in  the  doorway. 
It  was  all  right. 

"  Did  you  think  you  heard  a  carriage 
come  up  the  driveway?  "  she  asked. 

11  Why,  yes,"  he  replied,  "  but  I  didn't/' 

"Listen!  Is  there  some  one  coming 
along  the  corridor?  " 

[  35  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

He  crossed  the  room  quietly,  opened  the 
door,  and  turned  on  the  light.  "  No, 
dear.  There  is  no  one  there." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  ring  for  your  man, 
and  have  him  see  if  any  of  the  servants 
are  up?  " 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  laughed  heartily. 

"  See  here,  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  you  and 
I  are  a  pair  of  healthy  people.  We  have 
happened  to  hear  a  noise  which  we  can't 
explain.  Be  sure  that  there  is  rational 
explanation.  You're  not  afraid?" 

"  Well,  no,  I  really  am  not,"  she  de 
clared,  "  but  you  cannot  deny  that  it  is 
strange.  Did  you  hear  it  last  night?  " 

"  Go  on,  now,  with  your  cross-exami 
nation,"  he  said.  u  Let's  go  to  sleep.  At 
any  rate  the  exhibition  is  over  for  to 
night." 

The  fourth  night  they  did  not  speak  in 
the  night  any  more  than  they  had  in  the 
daytime.  But  the  next  day  they  had  a 
long  conversation,  the  gist  of  which  was 
this :  That  they  had  bought  the  place,  that 
except  for  fifteen  minutes  at  midnight,  the 
place  was  ideal.  They  were  both  level 
headed,  neither  believed  in  anything  super 
natural.  Were  they  to  be  driven  out  of 

c  36  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

such  a  place  by  so  harmless  a  thing  as  an 
unexplained  noise  ?  They  could  get  used 
to  it.  After  a  bit  it  would  no  more  wake 
them  up, —  such  was  the  force  of  habit  — 
than  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  To  all  this 
they  both  agreed,  and  the  matter  was 
dropped. 

For  ten  days  they  did  not  mention  it, 
but  in  all  those  ten  days  a  sort  of  cres 
cendo  of  emotion  was  going  on  in  her. 
At  first  she  began  to  think  of  it  as  soon  as 
bed-time  approached;  then  she  felt  it 
intruding  on  her  thoughts  at  the  dinner 
table;  then  she  was  unable  to  sleep  for  an 
hour  or  two  after  the  fifteen  minutes  had 
passed,  and,  finally,  one  night,  she  fled  into 
his  room  to  find  him  wide  awake,  just 
before  dawn,  and  to  confess  that  the 
shadow  of  midnight  was  stretched  before 
and  after  until  it  was  almost  a  black  circle 
round  the  twenty-four  hours. 

She  knew  it  was  absurd.  She  had  no 
intention  of  being  driven  out  of  such  a 
lovely  place  —  BUT  — 

"See  here,  dear,"  he  said.  "Let's 
break  our  rule.  We  neither  of  us  want 
company,  but  let's,  at  least,  have  a  big  week 
ender,  and  perhaps  we  can  prove  to  our 
selves  that  our  nerves  are  wrong.  One 

[  37  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

thing  is  sure,  if  you  are  going  to  get  pale 
over  it,  I'll  burn  the  blooming  house  down 
before  we'll  live  in  it." 

"  But  you  mind  it  yourself?  " 

"Not  a  bit!" 

"  But  you  are  awake." 

"  Of  course  I  am,  because  I  know  that 
you  are." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  if  I  slept  you 
wouldn't  notice  it?  " 

"  On  my  honor  —  I  should  not." 

*  You  are  a  comfort,"  she  ejaculated. 
"  I  shall  go  right  to  sleep."  And  off  she 
went,  and  did  go  to  sleep. 

All  the  same,  in  the  morning,  he  insisted 
on  the  house-party. 

"  Let  me  see  our  list,"  he  said.  "  Let 
us  have  no  students  of  occult;  no  men  who 
dabble  in  laboratory  spiritualism;  just  nice, 
live,  healthy  people  who  never  heard  of 
such  things  —  if  possible.  You  can  find 
them." 

u  You  see,  dear,"  she  explained,  "  it 
would  not  trouble  me  if  I  heard  it  and  you 
did  not  —  but — " 

"  Oh,  fudge !  "  he  laughed.  "  Just  now 
I  should  be  sure  to  hear  anything  you  did, 
I  suppose." 

[38  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

"  You  old  darling,"  she  replied,  "  then 
I  don't  care  for  it  a  bit." 

"  All  the  same  we'll  have  the  house- 
party." 

So  the  following  Saturday  every  room 
in  the  house  was  occupied. 

At  midnight  they  were  all  gathered  in 
the  long  drawing  room  opening  on  the 
colonnade,  and,  when  the  hour  sounded, 
some  one  was  singing.  The  host  and 
hostess  heard  the  running  horses,  as  usual, 
and  they  were  conscious  that  one  or  two 
people  turned  a  listening  ear,  but  evidently 
no  one  saw  anything  strange  in  it,  and  no 
comment  was  made.  It  was  after  one 
when  they  all  went  up  to  their  rooms,  so 
that  evening  passed  off  all  right. 

But  on  Sunday  night  two  of  the  younger 
guests  had  gone  to  sit  on  the  front  terrace, 
and  the  older  people  were  walking,  in  the 
moonlight,  in  the  garden  at  the  back.  The 
sweet  little  girl,  who  was  having  her  hand 
held,  got  up  properly  when  she  heard  the 
carriage  coming,  and  went  to  the  edge  of 
the  terrace  to  see  who  was  arriving  at  mid 
night.  She  had  a  fit  of  nerves  as  the 
invisible  vehicle  and  its  running  horses 
seemed  about  to  ride  over  her.  She  ran 

[  39  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

in,  trembling  with  fear,  to  tell  the  tale, 
and  of  course  every  one  laughed  at  her, 
and  the  matter  would  have  been  dropped, 
if  it  had  not  happened  that,  just  at  that 
moment  a  very  pale  gentleman  came 
stumbling  out  of  the  house  with  the  state 
ment  that  he  wanted  a  conveyance  "  to  take 
him  back  to  town,"  that  "  he  refused  to 
sleep  in  a  haunted  house,"  that  he  "  had 
encountered  an  invisible  person  running 
along  the  corridor  to  his  room,"  in  fact  the 
footsteps  had  as  he  put  it  "  passed  right 
through  him." 

The  host  broke  into  laughter,  but  he 
took  the  bull  by  the  horns  —  the  facts,  as 
he  knew  them,  were  safer  than  the  tales 
which  he  knew  would  run  over  the  city  if 
he  attempted  to  deny  things. 

"  See  here,  my  good  people,"  he  said, 
"  there  is  a  little  mystery  here  that  we 
can't  explain.  The  truth  is,  there  is  a 
story  about  this  house.  It  used  to  belong 
to  the  president  of  a  well-known  railroad. 
That  was  twenty-five  years  ago.  They 
say  that  one  night,  when  he  was  driving 
from  a  place  he  had  up  country,  his  team 
was  run  into  at  a  railway  crossing  five 
miles  from  here  —  one  of  those  grade 
crossings  that  never  ought  to  have  been  — • 
[  40  ] 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

and  he  was  killed  and  his  horses  came 
home  at  midnight.  4  They  say  '  that  the 
people  who  lived  here  after  that  declared 
that  the  horses  have  come  home  every 
midnight  since.  Now,  there's  the  story. 
They  don't  do  any  harm.  It  only  takes 
them  a  few  minutes.  They  don't  even 
trample  the  driveway,  so  why  not?  " 

"  All  the  same,  I  want  to  go  back  to 
town,"  said  the  frightened  guest. 

"  I  would  stay  the  night,  if  I  were  you," 
said  the  host.  "  They  won't  come  again 
until  to-morrow." 

All  the  same,  when  morning  came,  every 
one  skipped,  and  as  the  last  of  them  drove 
away,  the  Woman  put  her  hand  through 
the  Man's  arm,  and  smiled  as  she  said: 
"  It's  all  over.  I  don't  mind  a  bit. 
When  I  heard  you  saying  last  night,  '  They 
don't  even  trample  the  driveway,  so  why 
not?'  I  said  to  myself,  *  Why  not?'  in 
deed." 

"  Good  girl,"  he  replied.  "  I'll  bet  my 
top  hat  you  grow  to  be  proud  of  them." 

I  don't  know  that  they  ever  did,  but  I 
do  know  that  they  still  live  there.  I  went 
to  school  with  the  son,  and  whenever  any 
one  bragged,  he  used  to  say,  "  Well,  we've 
always  had  a  ghost.  You  ain't  got  that !  " 

[  4i  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

The  Youngster  threw  his  lighted  ciga 
rette  into  the  air,  ran  under  it,  caught  it 
between  his  lips,  and  made  a  bow,  as  the 
Doctor  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  I  know  that  old  house,"  he  said. 
"  Jamaica  Pond.  But  see  here,  Young 
ster,  your  idea  of  ghosts  is  terribly  illogi 
cal.  It  was  the  man  who  was  killed,  not 
the  horses.  The  wrong  part  of  the  team 
walked." 

"  You  are  particular,"  replied  the 
Youngster.  "  The  man  did  not  come 
back,  and  the  horses  did.  I  can't  split 
hairs  when  it's  a  ghost  story.  I  feel 
afraid  that  I  have  missed  my  vocation,  and 
that  flights  in  the  imagination  are  more  in 
my  line  than  flights  in  the  air.  I  don't 
know  what  you  think.  /  think  it's  a 
mighty  good  story.  I  say,  Journalist,  do 
you  think  I  could  sell  that  story?  I've 
never  earned  a  dollar  in  my  life." 

"Well,"  laughed  the  Journalist,  "a 
dollar  is  just  about  what  you  would  get 
for  it." 

"  If  I  had  been  doing  that  story,"  said 
the  Critic,  "  I  should  have  found  a  logical 
explanation  for  it." 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  said  the 
Youngster.  "  I  know  one  of  a  haunted 

[  42 1 


THE  YOUNGSTER'S  STORY 

house  on  St.  James  Street  which  had  an 
explanation." 

But  the  Doctor  cut  him  short  with: 
"  Come  now,  you've  done  your  stunt.  No 
more  stories  to-night.  Off  to  bed.  You 
and  I  are  going  to  take  a  run  to  Paris  to 


morrow." 


"What  for?" 

'*  Tell  you  to-morrow." 

As  every  one  began  to  move  toward  the 
house,  the  Violinist  remarked,  "  I  was 
thinking  of  running  up  to  Paris  myself  to 
morrow.  Any  one  else  want  to  go  with 
me?"  The  Journalist  said  that  he  did, 
and  the  party  broke  up.  As  they  strolled 
toward  the  house  the  Lawyer  was  heard 
asking  the  Youngster,  "  What  were  the 
steps  in  the  corridor?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  Youngster,  "  I  sup 
pose  on  the  night  that  the  team  came  home 
there  must  have  been  great  excitement  in 
the  house  —  every  one  running  to  and  fro 
and  — " 

But  the  Journalist's  shout  of  laughter 
stopped  him. 

The  Youngster  eyed  him  with  shocked 
surprise. 

"  By  Jupiter!"  cried  the  Journalist. 
"  That  is  the  darnedest  ghost  story  I  ever 

[  43  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

heard.     Everything  and  everybody  walked 
but  the  dead  man  —  even  the  carriage." 

"  That  isn't  my  fault,"  said  the  Young 
ster,  indignantly. 


[  44  ] 


II 

THE   TRAINED    NURSE'S    STORY 

THE  SON  OF  JOSEPHINE 
THE  TALE  OF  A  FOUNDLING 

THE  house  was  very  quiet  next  day. 
All  the  men,  except  the  Critic  and  the 
Sculptor,  had  made  an  early  and  hurried 
run  to  Paris.  So  we  saw  little  of  each 
other  until  we  gathered  for  dinner,  and  the 
conversation  was  calm  —  in  fact  subdued. 

The  Doctor  was  especially  quiet.  No 
one  was  really  gay  except  the  Youngster. 
He  talked  of  what  he  had  seen  in  Paris  — 
the  silent  streets  —  the  moods  of  the 
women  —  the  sight  of  officers  in  khaki  fly 
ing  about  in  big  touring  cars  —  and  no  one 
asked  what  had  really  taken  them  to  town. 

The  Trained  Nurse  and  I  had  walked 
to  the  nearest  village,  but  we  brought  back 
little  in  the  way  of  news.  The  only  inter 
esting  thing  we  saw  was  Monsieur  le  Cure 
talking  to  a  handsome  young  peasant 

[  45  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

woman  in  the  square  before  the  church. 
We  heard  her  say,  with  a  sob  in  her 
throat,  "  If  my  man  does  not  come  back, 
I'll  never  say  my  prayers  again.  I'll  never 
pray  to  a  God  who  let  this  thing  happen 
unless  my  man  comes  back." 

"  She  will,  just  the  same,"  said  the  Law 
yer.  "  One  of  the  strangest  features  of 
such  a  catastrophe  is  that  it  steadies  a  race, 
especially  the  race  convinced  that  it  has 
right  on  its  side." 

"  It  goes  deeper  than  that,"  said  the 
Journalist.  "  It  strikes  millions  with  the 
same  pain,  and  they  bear  together  what 
they  could  not  have  faced  separately." 

u  True,"  remarked  the  Doctor,  "  and 
that  is  one  reason  why  I  have  always  mis 
trusted  the  effort  of  people  outside  the  ra 
dius  of  disaster  to  help  in  anyway,  except 
scientifically." 

"  That  is  rather  a  cruel  idea,"  com 
mented  the  Trained  Nurse. 

"  Perhaps.  But  I  believe  organized 
charity  even  of  that  sort  is  usually  inef 
fective,  and  weakens  the  race  that  accepts 
it.  I  believe  victims  of  such  disaster  are 
healthier  and  come  out  stronger  for  facing 
it,  dying,  or  surviving,  as  Fate  decrees." 

"  Keep  off  the  grass,"  cried  the  Young- 
[  46  ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

ster.  "  I  brought  back  a  car  full  of 
books."  The  hint  was  taken,  and  we 
talked  of  books  until  the  coffee  came  out. 
As  usual,  the  Trained  Nurse  sat  behind 
the  pot,  and  when  we  were  all  served,  she 
pushed  the  tray  back,  folded  her  strong 
capable  white  hands  on  the  edge  of  the 
table,  and  said  quietly: 

"  Messieurs  et  Mes dames  " — 

We  lit  our  cigarettes,  and  she  began : 

It  was  the  first  year  after  I  left  home 
and  took  up  nursing.  I  had  a  room  at 
that  time  in  one  of  the  Friendly  Society 
refuges  on  the  lower  side  of  Beacon  Hill. 
It  was  under  the  auspices  of  an  Episcopal 
High  Church  in  the  days  of  Father  Hall, 
and  was  rather  English  in  tone.  Indeed 
its  matron  was  an  Englishwoman  —  gen 
tle,  round-faced,  lace-capped,  and  very 
sympathetic.  I  was  very  fond  of  her.  I 
had,  as  a  seamstress,  a  neat  little  girl 
named  Josephine. 

Josephine  was  a  tiny  creature,  all  grey  in 
tone,  with  mouse-colored  hair.  She  was 
a  foundling.  She  had  not  the  least  no 
tion  who  her  people  were.  Her  first  recol 
lections  were  of  the  orphan  asylum  where 
she  was  brought  up.  In  her  early  teens 

[  47  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

she  had  been  bound  out  to  a  dressmaker, 
who  had  been  kind  to  her,  and,  when  her 
first  employer  died,  Josephine,  who  had 
saved  a  little  money,  and  longed  for  inde 
pendence,  began  to  go  out  as  a  seamstress 
among  the  women  she  had  grown  to  know 
in  the  dressmaking  establishment,  and  went 
to  live  at  one  of  the  Christian  Association 
homes  for  working  girls. 

Every  one  knows  what  those  boarding 
houses  are  —  two  or  three  hundred  girls 
of  all  ages,  from  sixteen  up,  of  all  tem 
peraments.  All  girls  willing  to  submit  to 
control;  girls  with  their  gay  days  and  their 
tragic,  girls  of  ambition,  and  girls  with 
faith  in  the  future,  as  well  as  girls  of  no 
luck,  and  girls  with  their  simple  youthful 
romances. 

Every  one  loved  Josephine. 

She  was  by  nature  a  little  lady,  dainty 
in  her  ways,  industrious,  unrebellious,  al 
ways  ready  to  help  the  other  girls  about 
their  clothes,  and  a  model  of  a  confidant. 
Every  one  told  her  their  little  troubles, 
every  one  confided  their  little  romances. 
They  were  sure  of  a  good  listener,  who 
never  had  any  troubles  or  romances  of  her 
own  to  confide. 

I  don't  know  how  old  Josephine  was  at 

[  48  ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

that  time.  She  might  have  been  twenty- 
five,  looked  younger,  but  was  perhaps 
older.  She  was  so  tiny,  and  such  a  mouse 
of  a  thing  that  she  seemed  a  child,  but  for 
her  energy,  and  her  capacity  for  silence. 

It  was,  I  fancy,  three  years  after  I  first 
knew  her  that  she  one  evening  confided 
to  a  group  of  her  intimate  friends,  as  they 
sat  together  over  their  sewing,  that  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married.  There  was 
a  great  excitement.  Little  lonely  Jose 
phine,  so  discreet,  who  had  sympathized 
with  the  romances  of  so  many  of  her  com 
rades,  had  a  romance  of  her  own.  Such 
a  hugging  and  kissing  as  went  on,  you 
never  saw,  unless  you  have  seen  a  crowd 
of  such  girls  together.  Every  one  was 
full  of  questions,  and  there  were  almost 
as  many  tears  shed  as  questions  asked. 

He  was  a  carpenter,  Josephine  told 
them.  She  had  known  him  ever  since  she 
was  with  the  dressmaker  who  took  her  out 
of  the  asylum.  He  lived  in  Utica,  New 
York.  He  had  a  good  job,  and  they  were 
to  be  married  as  soon  as  she  could  get 
ready. 

So  Josephine  set  to  work  with  her  nim 
ble  fingers  to  make  her  trousseau.  Dur 
ing  the  years  she  had  worked  for  me,  the 

[  49  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Matron  at  the  Friendly  Society,  and  many 
of  its  patrons  had  come  to  know  and  love 
dear  little  Josephine,  and  in  our  house 
there  was  almost  as  much  excitement  over 
the  news  as  there  was  at  the  Association 
at  the  South  End.  All  the  girls  set  to 
work  to  make  something  for  little  Jose 
phine.  Every  one  for  whom  she  had 
worked  gave  her  something.  One  lady 
gave  her  black  silk  for  a  frock.  All  the 
girls  sewed  a  bit  of  underwear  for  her. 
She  had  sheets  and  table  linen,  and  all 
sorts  of  dainty  things  which  her  girl  friends 
loved  to  count  over,  and  admire  in  the  eve 
ning  without  the  least  bit  of  envy.  By 
the  time  Spring  came  Josephine  had  to  buy 
a  new  trunk  to  pack  her  things  away  in. 

Then  she  told  us  all  that  she  was  going 
to  Utica  to  be  married.  What  was  the 
use  of  his  spending  his  money  to  come  east 
for  her,  and  pay  his  expenses  back?  That 
seemed  reasonable,  and  the  day  was  fixed 
for  her  departure. 

Her  trunks  were  packed. 

She  took  a  night  train  so  that  we  could 
all  go  to  the  station  to  see  her  off,  and  I 
am  sure  that  the  crowd  who  saw  us  kissing 
her  good-bye  are  not  likely  to  forget  the 
scene. 

[  50  ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

Then  the  girls  went  home  chattering 
about  "  dear  little  Josephine." 

In  due  time  came  a  letter  from  a  place 
near  Utica,  where  she  was,  she  said,  on  her 
little  u  wedding  trip,"  and  "  very  happy," 
and  "  he  "  sent  his  love,  and  it  was  signed 
with  her  new  name,  and  she  would  send  us 
her  address  as  soon  as  she  was  settled. 

Time  went  by  —  some  months.  Then 
she  did  send  an  address,  but  she  did  not 
write  often,  and  when  she  did,  she  said 
little  but  that  she  was  happy. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  remember,  it  was  a 
year  and  a  half  after  she  left  that  news 
came  that  Josephine  had  a  son.  By  that 
time  a  great  many  of  the  girls  she  had 
known  were  gone.  Changes  come  fast  in 
such  a  place.  But  there  was  great  rejoic 
ing,  and  those  who  had  known  her  found 
time  to  make  something  for  dear  little 
Josephine's  baby,  and  the  sending  of  the 
things  kept  up  the  interest  in  her  for  some 
months. 

Then  the  letters  ceased  again. 

I  can't  be  sure  how  long  it  was  after  that 
that  I  received  a  letter  from  her.  She 
told  me  that  her  husband  was  dead,  that 
she  never  really  had  taken  root  in  Utica, 
and  now  that  she  was  alone,  with  her  baby 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

to  support,  she  longed  to  come  back  to 
Boston,  and  asked  my  advice.  Did  I  think 
she  could  take  up  her  old  work? 

I  took  the  letter  at  once  to  the  Matron 
of  the  Friendly  Society  —  I  happened  to 
be  resting  between  two  cases  —  and  we 
decided  that  it  was  safe.  At  least  between 
us  we  could  help  her  make  the  trial. 

A  few  months  later  she  came,  and  we 
went  to  the  station  to  meet  her.  I  could 
not  see  that  she  had  changed  a  bit.  She 
did  not  look  a  day  older,  and  the  bouncing 
baby  she  carried  in  her  arms  was  a  darling. 

Of  course  she  could  not  go  back  to  the 
Association.  That  was  not  for  married 
women.  But  we  found  her  a  room  just 
across  the  street,  and  in  no  time,  she 
dropped  right  back  into  the  place  she  had 
left.  Every  morning  she  took  the  baby 
boy  to  the  creche  and  every  night  she  took 
him  home,  and  a  better  cared-for,  better 
loved,  more  wisely  bred  youngster  was 
never  born,  nor  a  happier  one.  Every 
one  loved  him  just  as  every  one  loved 
Josephine. 

There  I  thought  Josephine's  story  ended, 
and  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  it  did. 

But  when  the  baby  was  six  years  old, 
and  forward  for  his  age,  the  Matron  of 

[  52  ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

the'Triendly  Society  came  into  my  room 
one  day,  when  I  was  there  to  take  a  longer 
rest  than  usual,  after  a  very  trying  case, 
and  told  me  that  she  was  in  great  distress. 
A  friend  of  hers,  who  had  been  her  prede 
cessor,  and  was  now  the  Matron  of  an 
Orphan  Asylum  in  New  York  State,  was 
going  to  the  hospital  to  have  a  cataract 
removed  from  her  eye,  and  had  written  to 
ask  her  to  come  and  take  her  place  while 
she  was  away.  She  begged  me  to  replace 
her  at  the  Friendly  Society  while  she  was 
gone.  As  her  assistant  was  a  capable 
young  woman,  and  my  relations  witn  every 
one  were  pleasant  I  was  only  too  glad  to 
consent.  She  had  always  been  so  good  to 
me. 

She  was  gone  a  month. 

On  her  return  I  noticed  that  she  was  dis 
tressed  about  something.  I  taxed  her  with 
it.  She  said  it  was  nothing  she  felt  like 
talking  about.  But  one  evening  when 
Josephine  had  been  sewing  for  me,  after 
she  was  gone,  the  Matron,  who  had  been 
in  my  room,  got  up,  and  closed  the  door 
after  her. 

"  I've  really  got  to  tell  you  what  is  on 
my  mind,"  she  said.  "  And  I  am  sure  that 
you  will  look  on  it  as  a  confidence.  You 

[  53  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

know  the  asylum  where  I  have  been  is  not 
far  from  Utica,  where  Josephine  went 
when  she  was  married.  Well,  one  day, 
about  a  fortnight  after  I  got  there,  I  had 
occasion  to  look  up  the  record  of  a  child 
in  the  books,  and  my  attention  was  at 
tracted  by  a  name  the  same  as  Josephine's. 
The  coincidence  struck  me,  and  I  read  the 
record  that  on  a  certain  day,  which  as  near 
as  I  could  calculate,  must  have  been  a  year 
after  Josephine  left,  a  person  of  her  name, 
written  down  as  a  widow,  a  member  of 
the  Orthodox  Church,  had  adopted  a  male 
child  a  few  months  old.  I  was  interested. 
I  did  not  suspect  anything,  but  I  asked  the 
assistant  matron  if  she  remembered  the 
case.  She  did,  clearly.  She  said  the 
woman  was  a  dear  little  thing,  who  had 
come  there  shortly  before,  a  young  widow, 
a  seamstress.  She  was  a  lonely  little 
thing,  and  some  one  connected  with  the 
asylum  had  given  her  work,  which  she  had 
done  so  well  that  she  soon  had  all  she 
needed.  She  had  been  employed  in  the 
asylum,  and  loved  children  as  they  did  her. 
The  child  in  question  was  the  son  of  a 
woman  who  had  died  at  its  birth,  from  the 
shock  of  an  accident  which  had  killed  the 
father.  It  took  a  fancy  to  Josephine,  and 

1 54] 


THF  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

she  wanted  to  adopt  it.  The  committee 
took  the  matter  up.  The  clergyman  spoke 
well  of  her,  as  did  every  one,  and  they  all 
decided  that  she  was  perfectly  able  to  care 
for  it.  So  she  took  the  child.  All  of  a 
sudden,  one  day,  Josephine  went,  as  she 
had  come.  There  was  no  mystery  about 
it.  She  told  the  clergyman  that  she  was 
homesick  for  her  old  friends,  and  had 
gone  east,  and  would  write,  and  she  always 
has. 

"  Of  course  I  was  puzzled.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  it  was  our  little 
Josephine.  Naturally  I  was  discreet. 
Luckily.  I  spoke  of  her  to  several  people 
who  remembered  her,  and  they  all  called 
her  '  dear  little  Josephine  '  just  as  we  had. 
I  talked  of  her  with  the  clergyman  and  his 
wife.  I  asked  questions  that  were  too 
natural  to  rouse  suspicions,  when  I  told 
them  that  I  knew  her,  that  the  baby  was 
the  dearest  and  happiest  child  I  knew,  and 
what  do  you  suppose  I  found  out,  more 
by  inference  than  facts  ?" 

No  need  to  ask  me.     Didn't  I  know? 

Josephine  had  never  been  married. 
There  had  never  been  any  "  He."  It  all 
seemed  so  natural.  It  did  not  shock  me, 
as  it  had  the  Matron,  and  I  was  glad  she 

[  55  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

had  told  no  one  but  me.  Dear  little 
Josephine!  Sitting  there  in  the  Associa 
tion  without  family,  with  no  friends  but 
her  patrons,  and  those  girls  whose  little 
romances  went  on  about  her !  No  ro 
mances  ever  came  her  way.  So  she  had 
made  one  all  of  her  own.  I  proved  to  the 
Matron  easily  that  what  she  had  dis 
covered  by  accident  was  not  her  affair,  that 
to  keep  Josephine's  secret  was  a  virtue, 
and  not  a  sin.  I  was  sure  of  that,  for, 
as  I  watched  her  afterwards,  I  knew  that 
Josephine  had  played  her  part  in  her 
dream  romance  so  well,  that  she  no  longer 
remembered  that  it  was  not  true.  She 
had  forgotten  she  had  not  really  borne  the 
child  she  carried  so  lovingly  in  her  arms. 

"  Is  that  all?  "  asked  the  Journalist. 

"That  is  all,"  replied  the  Trained 
Nurse. 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  that  is 
a  good  story.  I  wish  I  had  told  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor,"  laughed  the 
Trained  Nurse.  "  I  thought  it  was  a  bit 
in  your  line." 

"  But  fancy  the  cleverness  of  the  little 
thing  to  do  all  the  details  up  so  nicely," 
said  the  Lawyer.  "  She  dovetailed  every- 

[  56  ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

thing  so  neatly.  But  what  I  want  to  know 
is  whether  she  planned  the  baby  when  she 
planned  the  make-believe  husband?" 

u  I  fancy  not,"  replied  the  Nurse. 
"  One  thing  came  along  after  another  in 
her  imagination,  quite  naturally." 

"  Poor  little  Josephine  —  it  seems  to 
me  hard  luck  to  have  had  to  imagine  such 
an  every  day  fate,"  sighed  the  Divorcee. 

u  Don't  pity  her,"  snapped  the  Doctor. 
"  Poor  little  Josephine,  indeed!  Lucky 
little  Josephine,  who  arranged  her  own 
romance,  and  risked  no  disillusion.  There 
have  been  cases  where  the  joys  of  the 
imagination  have  been  more  dangerous." 

"  You  are  sure  she  had  no  disillusion?  " 
asked  the  Critic. 

"  I  am,"  said  the  Nurse. 

"  And  her  name  was  Josephine?  "  asked 
the  Divorcee. 

"  It  was  not,  and  Utica  was  not  the 
town,"  replied  the  Nurse. 

"  Perhaps  her  disillusion  is  ahead  of 
her,"  said  the  Journalist.  "  '  Say  no 
man  ' —  or  woman  either  — '  is  happy  un 
til  the  day  of  his  death.'  " 

u  She  is  dead,"  said  the  Nurse. 

"  I  told  you  she  was  lucky  little  Jose 
phine,"  ejaculated  the  Doctor. 

[  57  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  And  she  died  without  telling  the  boy 
the  truth?  "  asked  the  Journalist. 

"The  truth?"  repeated  the  Nurse. 
"  IVe  told  you  that  she  had  forgotten  it. 
No  woman  was  ever  so  loved  by  a  son. 
No  mother  ever  so  grieved  for." 

"Then  the  son  lives?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

The  Nurse  smiled  quietly. 

"Good-night,"  said  the  Doctor.  "I 
am  going  to  bed  to  dream  of  that.  It  is 
a  pity  some  of  the  rest  of  us  childless 
slackers  had  not  done  as  well  as  Josephine. 
She  took  her  risk.  She  was  lucky." 

"  She  did,"  replied  the  Nurse,  "  but  she 
did  not  realize  anything  of  that.  She  was 
too  simple,  too  unanalytic." 

"  I  wonder?  "  said  the  Critic. 

"  You  need  not,  I  know."  Her  eyes 
fell  on  the  Lawyer,  and  she  caught  a  laugh 
in  his  eye.  "  What  does  that  mean?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "  I  was  only 
thinking.  She  was  religious,  that  dear 
little  Josephine?" 

"  At  least  she  always  went  to  church." 

"  I  know  the  type,"  said  the  Violinist, 
gently.     "  Accepted  what  she  was  taught, 
believed  it." 
[   58   ] 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE'S  STORY 

"  Exactly  "  said  the  Lawyer,  "  that  is 
what  I  was  getting  at.  Well  then,  when 
her  son  meets  her  an  dela  —  he  will  ask 
for  his  father — " 

"  Or,"  interrupted  the  Violinist,  "  his 
own  mother  will  claim  him." 

"  Don't  worry,"  laughed  the  Critic. 
'*  It's  dollars  to  doughnuts  that  she  was 
i  dear  little  Josephine  '  to  all  the  Heavenly 
Host  half  an  hour  after  she  entered  the 
4  gates  of  pearl.'  Don't  look  shocked. 
That  is  not  sacrilegious.  It  is  intentions 
—  motives,  that  are  immortal,  not  facts. 
Besides—" 

"  Don't  push  that  idea  too  far,"  inter 
rupted  the  Doctor  from  the  door. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed.  I  was  only  going 
to  say  —  there  are  Ik  Marvels  au  dela  — " 

"  I  knew  that  idea  was  in  your  head. 
Drop  it!  "  laughed  the  Doctor. 

"  Anyway,"  said  the  Violinist,  "  if  Life 
is  but  a  dream,  she  had  a  pretty  one. 
Good  night."  And  he  went  up  to  bed, 
and  we  all  soon  followed  him,  and  I  im 
agine  not  one  of  us,  as  we  looked  out  into 
the  moonlit  air,  thought  that  night  of  war. 


[  59  ] 


Ill 

THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

'TWAS  IN  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER 
THE  TALE  OF  AN  ACTRESS 

THE  next  day,  just  as  we  were  sitting 
down  to  dinner,  the  news  came  that  Namur 
had  fallen.  The  German  army  had 
marched  singing  into  the  burning  town  the 
afternoon  before.  The  Youngster  had 
his  head  over  a  map  almost  all  through 
dinner.  The  Belgians  were  practically 
pushed  out  of  all  but  Antwerp,  and  the 
Germans  were  rapidly  approaching  the 
natural  defences  of  France  running  from 
Lille  to  Verdun,  through  Valenciennes, 
Mauberge,  Hirson  and  Mezieres. 

Things  were  beginning  to  look  serious, 
although  we  still  insisted  on  believing  that 
the  Germans  could  not  break  through. 
One  result  of  the  march  of  events  was  that 
we  none  of  us  had  any  longer  the  smallest 
desire  to  argue.  Theories  were  giving 
way  to  the  facts  of  every  day,  but  in  our 

[  60  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

minds,  I  imagine,  we  were  every  one  of 
us  asking,  "  How  long  CAN  we  stay  here? 
How  long  will  it  be  wise,  even  if  we  are 
permitted  ?"  But,  as  if  by  common  con 
sent,  no  one  asked  the  question,  and  we 
were  only  too  glad  to  sit  out  in  the  garden 
we  had  all  learned  to  love,  and  to  talk  of 
anything  which  was  not  war,  until  the  Critic 
moved  his  chair  into  the  middle  cf  the 
circle,  and  began  his  tale. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  remarked.  "  I  need 
a  property  or  two,"  and  he  pulled  an 
envelope  out  of  his  pocket  and  laid  it  on 
the  table,  and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  it, 
began: 

It  was  in  the  Autumn  of  'Si  that  I  last 
saw  Dillon  act. 

She  had  made  a  great  success  that  win 
ter,  yet,  in  the  middle  of  the  season,  she 
had  suddenly  disappeared. 

There  were  all  kinds  of  newspaper  ex 
planations. 

Then  she  was  forgotten  by  the  public 
that  had  enthusiastically  applauded  her, 
and  which  only  sighed  sadly,  a  year  later, 
on  hearing  of  her  death,  in  a  far  off  Italian 
town, —  sighed,  talked  a  little,  and  forgot 
again. 

[  61  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

It  chanced  that  a  few  years  later  I  was 
in  Italy,  and  being  not  many  miles  from 
the  town  where  I  heard  that  she  was 
buried,  and  a  trifle  overstrung  by  a  few 
months  delicious,  aimless  life  in  that  won 
derful  country,  I  was  taken  with  a  senti 
mental  fancy  to  visit  her  grave. 

It  was  a  sort  of  pilgrimage  for  me,  for 
I  had  given  to  Dillon  my  first  boyish 
devotion. 

I  thought  of  her,  and  to  remember  her 
was  to  recall  her  rare  charm,  her  beauty, 
her  success,  after  a  long  struggle,  and  the 
unexpected,  inexplicable  manner  in  which 
she  had  abandoned  it.  It  was  to  recall, 
too,  the  delightful  evenings  I  had  spent 
under  her  influence,  the  pleasure  I  had  had 
in  the  passion  of  her  u  Juliet,"  the  poetic 
charm  of  her  "Viola";  the  graceful 
witchery  of  her  "  Rosalind";  how  I  had 
smiled  with  her  "  Portia  " ;  laughed  with 
her  "Beatrice";  wept  with  her  "  Ca- 
mille  " ;  in  fact  how  I  had  yielded  myself 
up  to  her  magnetism  with  that  ecstatic 
pleasure  in  which  one  gets  the  best  joys 
of  every  passion,  because  one  does  not 
drain  the  dregs  of  any. 

I  well  remembered  her  last  night,  how 
she  had  disappeared,  how  she  had  gone  to 

[  62  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

Europe,  how  she  had  died  abroad, —  all 
mere  facts  known  in  their  bareness  only  to 
the  public. 

It  was  hard  to  find  the  place  where  she 
was  buried.  But  at  last  I  succeeded. 

It  was  in  a  humble  churchyard.  The 
grave  was  noticeable  because  it  was  well 
kept,  and  utterly  devoid  of  the  tawdry 
ornamentation  inseparable  from  such 
places  in  Italy.  It  was  marked  by  a  monu 
ment  distinctly  unique  in  a  European  coun 
try.  It  was  a  huge  unpolished  boulder, 
over  which  creeping  green  vines  were 
growing. 

On  its  rough  surface  a  cross  was  cut, 
and  underneath  were  the  words: 

"Yesterday  This  Day's  Madness  did  prepare, 
"To-morrow's  Silence,  Triumph  or  Despair." 

Below    that    I    read    with ,  stupefaction, 
"  Margaret  Dillon  and  child," 

and  the  dates 

"January,  1843  " 
"July  25,   1882." 

In  spite  of  the  doubts  and  fancies  this 
put  into  my  mind,  I  no  sooner  stood  beside 
the  spot  where  the  earth  had  claimed  her, 
than  all  my  old  interest  in  her  returned. 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

I  lingered  about  the  place,  full  of  roman 
tic  fancies,  decorating  her  tomb  with 
flowers,  as  I  had  once  decorated  her  tri 
umphs,  absorbed  in  a  dreamy  adoration  of 
her  memory,  and  singing  her  praise  in 
verse. 

It  was  then  that  I  learned  the  true  story 
of  her  disappearance,  guessed  at  that  of 
her  death,  as  I  did  at  the  identity  of  the 
young  Dominican  priest,  who  sometimes 
came  to  her  grave,  and  who  finally  told 
me  such  of  the  facts  as  I  know.  I  can  best 
tell  the  story  by  picturing  two  nights  in 
the  life  of  Margaret  Dillon,  the  two  fol 
lowing  her  last  appearance  on  the  stage. 

The  play  had  been  "  Much  Ado." 

Never  had  she  acted  with  finer  humor, 
or  greater  gaiety.  Yet  all  the  evening 
she  had  felt  a  strange  sadness. 

When  it  was  all  over,  and  friends  had 
trooped  round  to  the  stage  to  praise  her, 
and  trooped  away,  laughing  and  happy, 
she  felt  a  strange,  sad,  unused  reluctance 
to  see  them  go. 

Then  she  sat  down  to  her  dressing  table, 
hurriedly  removed  her  make-up,  and  al 
lowed  herself  to  be  stripped  of  her  stage 
finery.  Her  fine  spirits  seemed  to  strip 
off  with  her  character.  She  shivered 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

occasionally  with  nervousness,  or  supersti 
tion,  and  she  was  strangely  silent. 

All  day  she  had,  for  some  inexplicable 
reason,  been  thinking  of  her  girlhood,  of 
what  her  life  might  have  been  if,  at  a 
critical  moment,  she  had  chosen  a  woman's 
ordinary  lot  instead  of  work, —  or  if,  at  a 
later  day,  she  had  yielded  to,  instead  of 
resisted,  a  great  temptation.  All  day,  as 
on  many  days  lately,  she  had  wondered  if 
she  regretted  it,  or  if,  the  days  of  her 
great  triumph  having  passed, —  as  pass 
th^yjrmst, —  she  should  regret  it  later  if 
she  did  not  yet. 

It  was  probably  because, —  early  in  the 
season  as  it  was  —  she  was  tired,  and  the 
October  night  oppressed  her  with  the  heat 
of  Indian  Summer. 

Silently  she  had  allowed  herself  to  be 
undressed,  and  redressed  in  great  haste. 
But  before  she  left  the  theatre  she  bade 
every  one  "  good  night "  with  more  than 
her  usual  kindliness,  not  because  she  did 
not  expect  to  see  them  all  on  Monday, — 
it  was  a  Saturday  night, —  but  because,  in 
her  inexplicably  sad  humour,  she  felt  an 
irresistible  desire  to  be  at  peace  with  the 
world,  and  a  still  deeper  desire  to  feel  her 
self  beloved  by  those  about  her. 

C  65  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Then  she  entered  her  carriage  and  drove 
hurriedly  home  to  the  tiny  apartment 
where  she  lived  quite  alone. 

On  the  supper  table  lay  a  note. 

She  shivered  as  she  took  it  up.  It  was 
a  handwriting  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
see  once  a  year  only,  in  one  simple  word  of 
greeting,  always  the  same  word,  which 
every  year  in  eighteen  had  come  to  her  on 
New  Year's  wherever  she  was. 

But  this  was  October. 

She  sat  perfectly  still  for  some  minutes, 
and  then  resolutely  opened  the  letter,  and 
read: 

"Madge:  —  I  am  so  afraid  that  my  voice 
coming  to  you,  not  only  across  so  many  years, 
but  from  another  world,  may  shock  you,  that 
I  am  strongly  tempted  not  to  keep  my  word  to 
you,  yet,  judging  you  by  myself,  I  feel  that  per 
haps  this  will  be  less  painful  than  the  thought 
that  I  had  passed  forgetful  of  you,  or  changed 
toward  you.  You  were  a  mere  girl  when  we 
mutually  promised,  that  though  it  was  Fate 
that  our  paths  should  not  be  the  same,  and  hon 
orable  that  we  should  keep  apart,  we  would  not 
pass  out  of  life,  whatever  came,  without  a  fare 
well  word, —  a  second  saying  '  good-bye.'  " 

"  It  is  my  fate  to  say  it.  It  is  now  God's 
will.  Before  it  was  yours.  It  is  eighteen  years 
since  you  chose  my  honor  to  your  happiness  and 
mine.  To-day  you  are  a  famous  woman.  That 

[  66  ]  ' 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

is  the  consolation  I  have  found  in  your  decision. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  Fame  will  always  make 
up  to  you  for  the  rest.  A  woman's  way  is  pe 
culiar —  and  right,  I  suppose.  I  have  never 
changed.  My  son  has  been  a  second  consola 
tion,  and  that,  too,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  had 
he  never  been  born,  your  decision  might  have 
been  so  different.  He  is  a  young  man  now, 
strangely  like  what  I  was,  when  as  a  child,  you 
first  knew  me,  and  he  has  always  been  my  con 
fidant.  In  those  first  days  of  my  banishment 
from  you  I  kept  from  crying  my  agony  from 
the  housetops  by  whispering  it  to  him.  His  un 
comprehending  ears  were  my  sole  confessional. 
His  mother  cared  little  for%  his  companionship, 
and  her  invalidism  threw  him  continually  into 
my  care.  I  do  not  know  when  he  began  to 
understand,  but  from  the  hour  he  could  speak 
he  whispered  your  name  in  his  prayers.  But  it 
was  only  lately  that,  of  himself,  he  discovered 
your  identity.  The  love  I  felt  for  you  in  my 
early  days  has  grown  with  me.  It  has  survived 
in  my  heart  when  all  other  passions,  all  prides, 
all  ambitions,  long  ago  died.  I  leave  you,  I 
hope,  a  good  memory  of  me  —  a  man  who  loved 
you  more  than  he  loved  himself,  who  for  eight 
een  years  has  loved  you  silently,  yet  never  ceased 
to  grieve  for  you.  But  I  fear  that  I  have  be 
queathed  to  my  son,  with  the  name  and  estate  of 
his  father,  my  hopeless  love  for  you.  If,  by 
chance,  what  I  fear  be  true, —  if,  when  bereft 
of  me,  he  seeks  you  out,  as  be  sure  he  will, —  deal 
gently  with  him  for  his  father's  sake. 

"  There  was  an  old  compact  between  us,  dear. 
I  mention  it  nowr  only  in  the  hope  that  you  may 


JOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

not  have  forgotten  —  indeed,  in  the  certainty 
that  you  have  not.  I  know  you  so  well.  Re 
member  it,  I  beg  of  you,  only  to  ignore  it.  It 
was  made,  you  know,  when  one  of  us  expected 
to  watch  the  passing  of  the  other.  This  is  dif 
ferent.  If  this  reminds  you  of  it,  it  reminds  you 
only  to  warn  you  that  Time  cancels  all  such 
compacts.  It  is  my  voice  that  assures  you  of  it. 

"  FELIX  R." 

Underneath,  written  in  letters,  like,  yet 
so  unlike,  were  the  words,  "  My  father 
died  this  morning.  F.  R."  and  an  uncer 
tain  mark  as  though  he  had  begun  to  add 
"  Jr."  to  the  signature,  and  realized  that 
there  was  no  need. 

The  letter  fell  from  her  hands. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  silent. 

Dead !  She  had  never  felt  that  he  could 
die  while  she  lived.  A  knowledge  that  he 
was  living, —  loving  her,  adoring  her  hope 
lessly —  was  necessary  to  her  life.  She 
felt  that  she  could  not  go  on  without  it. 
For  eighteen  years  she  had  compared  all 
other  men,  all  other  emotions  to  him  and 
his  love,  to  find  them  all  wanting. 

And  he  had  died. 

She  looked  at  the  date  of  the  letter.  He 
would  be  resting  in  that  tomb  she  remem 
bered  so  well,  before  she  could  reach  the 
[  68  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

place;  that  spot  before  which  they  had 
often  talked  of  Death,  which  had  no  ter 
rors  for  either  of  them. 

She  rose.  She  pushed  away  her  un 
touched  supper,  hurriedly  drank  a  glass  of 
wine,  and,  crossing  the  hall  to  her  bed 
room,  opened  a  tiny  box  that  stood  locked 
upon  her  dressing  table.  She  took  from  it 
a  picture  —  a  miniature.  It  was  of  a 
young  man  not  over  twenty-five.  The 
face  was  strong  and  full  of  virile  sugges 
tion,  even  in  a  picture.  The  eyes  were 
brown,  the  lips  under  the  short  mustache 
were  firm,  and  the  thick,  short,  brown  hair 
fell  forward  a  bit  over  the  left  temple. 
It  was  a  handsome  manly  face. 

The  picture  was  dated  eighteen  years 
before.  It  hardly  seemed  possible  that 
eighteen  years  earlier  this  woman  could 
have  been  old  enough  to  stir  the  passionate 
love  of  such  a  man.  Her  face  was  still 
young,  her  form  still  slender;  her  abundant 
hair  shaded  deep  gray  eyes  where  the 
spirit  of  youth  still  shone.  But  she  be 
longed,  by  temperament  and  profession,  to 
that  race  of  women  who  guard  their  youth 
marvellously. 

There  were  no  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

sat  long  into  the  morning,  and,  with  his 
pictured  face  before  her,  reflected  until  she 
had  decided. 

He  had  kept  his  word  to  her.  His 
"  good  bye  "  had  been  loyally  said.  She 
would  keep  hers  in  turn,  and  guard  his 
first  night's  solitude  in  the  tomb  with  her 
watchful  prayers.  She  calculated  well  the 
time.  If  she  travelled  all  day  Sunday,  she 
would  be  there  sometime  before  midnight. 
If  she  travelled  back  at  once,  she  could  be 
in  town  again  in  season  to  play  Monday; 
not  in  the  best  of  conditions,  to  be  sure, 
for  so  hard  a  role  as  "  Juliet,"  but  she 
would  have  fulfilled  a  duty  that  would 
never  come  to  her  again. 

It  was  near  midnight,  on  Sunday. 

The  light  of  the  big  round  harvest  moon 
fell  through  the  warm  air,  which  scarcely 
moved  above  the  graves  of  the  almost  for 
gotten  dead  in  the  country  churchyard. 
The  low  headstones  cast  long  shadows 
over  the  long  grass  that  merely  trembled 
as  the  noiseless  wind  moved  over  it. 

A  tall  woman  in  a  riding  dress  stood 
beside  the  rough  sexton  at  the  door  of  the 
only  large  tomb  in  the  enclosure. 

He  had  grown  into  a  bent  old  man  since 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

she  last  saw  him,  but  he  had  recognized 
her,  and  had  not  hesitated  to  obey  her. 

As  he  unlocked  and  pushed  back  the 
great  door  which  moved  easily  and  noise 
lessly,  he  placed  his  lantern  on  the  steps, 
and  telling  her  that,  according  to  a  family 
custom,  there  were  lights  inside,  he  turned 
away,  and  left  her,  to  keep  his  watch  near 
by. 

No  need  to  tell  her  the  family  customs. 
She  knew  them  but  too  well. 

For  a  few  moments  she  remained  seated 
on  the  step  where  she  had  rested  to  await 
the  opening  of  the  door,  on  the  threshold 
of  the  tomb  of  the  one  man  among  all  the 
men  she  had  met  who  had  stirred  in  her 
heart  a  great  love.  How  she  had  loved 
him !  How  she  had  feared  that  her  love 
would  wear  his  out!  How  she  had  suf 
fered  when  she  decided  that  love  was  some 
thing  more  than  self-gratification,  that  even 
though  for  her  he  should  put  aside  the 
woman  he  had  heedlessly  married  years 
before,  there  could  never  be  any  happiness 
in  such  a  union  for  either  of  them.  How 
many  times  in  her  own  heart  she  had 
owned  that  the  woman  would  not  have  had 
the  courage  shown  by  the  girl,  for  the  girl 
did  not  realize  all  she  was  putting  aside. 

[  71  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Yet  the  consciousness  of  his  love,  in  which 
she  never  ceased  to  believe,  had  kept  her 
brave  and  young. 

She  rose  and  slowly  entered  the  vault. 

The  odor  of  flowers,  the  odor  of  death 
was  about  it. 

She  lifted  the  lantern  from  the  ground, 
and,  with  it  raised  above  her  head,  ap 
proached  the  open  coffin  that  rested  on  the 
catafalque  in  the  centre  of  the  tomb  and 
mounted  the  two  steps.  She  was  con 
scious  of  no  fear,  of  no  dread  at  the  idea 
of  once  more,  after  eighteen  years,  look 
ing  into  the  face  of  the  man  she  had  loved, 
who  had  carried  a  great  love  for  her  into 
another  world.  But  as  she  looked,  her 
eyes  widened  with  fright.  She  bent  lower 
over  him.  No  cry  burst  from  her  lips, 
but  the  hand  holding  the  lantern  lowered 
slowly,  and  she  tumbled  down  the  two 
steps,  and  staggered  back  against  the  wall, 
where,  behind  lettered  slides,  the  dead 
Richmonds  for  six  generations  slept  their 
long  sleep  together.  Her  breast  heaved 
up  and  down,  as  if  life,  like  a  caged  thing, 
were  striving  to  escape.  Yet  no  sound 
came  from  her  colorless  lips,  no  tears  were 
in  her  widened  eyes. 

The  realizing  sense  of  departed  years 

[  72  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

had  reached  her  heart  at  last,  and  the 
shock  was  terrible.  With  a  violent  effort 
she  recovered  herself.  But  the  firm  step, 
the  fearless,  hopeful  face  with  which  she 
had  approached  the  coffin  of  her  dead 
lover  were  very  different  from  the  blind 
manner  in  which  she  stumbled  back  to  his 
bier,  and  the  hand  which  a  second  time 
raised  the  lantern  trembled  so  that  its 
wavering  light  shed  an  added  weirdness 
on  the  still  face,  so  strange  to  her  eyes,  and 
stranger  still  to  her  heart. 

He  had  been  a  young  man  when  they 
parted.  To  her  he  had  remained  young. 
Now  the  hair  about  the  brows  was  thin 
and  white,  the  drooping  mustache  that 
entirely  concealed  the  mouth  was  grizzled; 
lines  furrowed  the  forehead,  outlined  the 
sunken  eyes,  and  gave  an  added  thinness 
to  the  nostrils.  She  bent  once  more  over 
the  face,  to  her  only  a  strange  cold  mask. 
A  painful  fascination  held  her  for  several 
minutes,  forcing  her  to  mark  how  love, 
that  had  kept  her  young,  proud,  content  in 
its  very  existence,  had  sapped  his  life,  and 
doubled  his  years. 

The  realization  bent  her  slender  figure 
under  a  load  of  self-reproach  and  self- 
mistrust.  She  drooped  lower  and  lower 

[  73  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

above  the  sad,  dead  face  until  she  slid  to 
the  ground  beside  him.  Heavy  tearless 
sobs  shook  her  slight  frame  as  it  stretched 
its  length  beside  the  dead  love  and  the  dead 
dream.  The  ideal  so  long  treasured  in 
her  soul  had  lost  its  reality.  The  present 
had  wiped  out  the  past  as  a  sponge  wipes 
off  a  slate. 

If  she  had  but  heeded  his  warning,  and 
refrained  from  coming  until  later,  she 
would  have  escaped  making  a  stranger  of 
him  forever.  Now  the  sad,  aged  face,  the 
dead,  strange  face  which  she  had  seen  but 
five  minutes  before,  had  completely  ob 
scured  in  her  memory  the  long-loved, 
young  face  that  had  been  with  her  all  these 
years.  The  spirit  whose  consoling  pres 
ence  she  had  thought  to  feel  upholding  her 
at  this  moment  made  no  sign.  She  was 
alone  in  the  world,  bereft  of  her  one  sup 
porting  ideal,  alone  beside  the  dead  body 
of  one  who  was  a  stranger  alike  to  her 
sight  and  her  emotions;  alone  at  night  in 
an  isolation  as  unexpected  as  it  was  terrible 
to  her,  and  which  chilled  her  senses  as  if 
it  had  come  to  oppress  her  forever. 

The  shadows  which  she  had  not  noticed 
before,  the  dark  corners  of  the  tomb,  the 
motionless  gleam  of  the  moon  as  it  fell 

[  74  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

through  the  open  door,  and  laid  silently 
on  the  floor  like  light  stretched  dead,  the 
low  rustle  of  the  wind  as  if  Nature  rest 
lessly  moved  in  her  sleep,  came  suddenly 
upon  her,  and  brought  her  —  fear.  She 
held  her  breath  as  she  stilled  her  sobs  to 
realize  that  she  alone  lived  in  this  city  of 
the  Dead.  The  chill  of  fright  crept  along 
the  surface  of  her  body,  which  still  vibrated 
with  her  storm  of  grief. 

She  seemed  paralyzed.  She  dared  not 
move. 

Every  sense  rallied  to  her  ears  in  dread. 

Suddenly  she  heard  her  name  breathed: 
"Margaret!" 

It  was  whispered  in  a  voice  once  so 
familiar  to  her  ears,  a  voice  that  used  to 
say,  "  Madge." 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow. 

She  dared  not  answer. 

She  hardly  dared  breathe. 

She  was  afraid  in  every  sense,  and  yet 
she  hungered  for  another  sound  of  that 
loved  voice.  Every  hour  of  its  banishment 
was  regretted  at  that  moment.  There 
seemed  no  future  without  it. 

Every  nerve  listened. 

At  first  she  heard  nothing  but  the  rest 
less  moving  of  the  air,  which  merely 

[  75  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

emphasized  her  loneliness,  then  she  caught 
the  pulsation  of  slow  regular  breathing. 

She  started  to  her  feet. 

She  snatched  up  the  lantern  and  quickly 
mounted  to  the  bier.  She  looked  sharply 
down  into  the  dead  face. 

Silent,  with  its  white  hair,  and  worn 
lines,  it  rested  on  its  white  pillows. 

No  sound  came  from  the  cold  still  lips. 

Yet,  while  her  eyes  were  riveted  on  them, 
once  more  the  longed-for  voice  breathed 
her  name.  "  Margaret!  " 

It  came  from  behind  her. 

She  turned  quickly. 

There  in  the  moonlit  doorway,  with  a 
sad,  compassionate  smile  on  his  strong, 
young  face  —  as  if  it  were  yesterday  they 
had  parted  —  stood  the  man  she  remem 
bered  so  well. 

Her  bewildered  eyes  turned  from  the 
silent,  unfamilar  face  among  the  satin 
cushions,  to  the  living  face  in  the  moon 
light, —  the  young,  brown  eyes,  the  short, 
brown  hair  falling  forward  over  the  left 
temple,  the  erect,  elastic  figure,  the  strong 
loving  hands  stretching  out  to  her. 

She  was  so  tired,  so  heart  sick,  so  full 
of  longing  for  the  love  she  had  lost. 

"  Felix,"  she  sobbed,  and,  blindly  grop- 
[  76  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

ing  to  reach  what  she  feared  was  a  halluci 
nation,  she  stumbled  down  the  steps,  and 
was  caught  up  in  the  arms  flung  wide  to 
catch  her,  and  which  folded  about  her  as 
if  forever.  She  sighed  his  name  again, 
upon  the  passionate  young  lips  which  had 
inherited  the  great  love  she  had  put  aside 
so  long  before. 

As  the  last  words  died  away,  the  Critic 
drew  himself  up  and  laughed. 

He  had  told  the  story  very  dramatically, 
reading  the  letter  from  the  envelope  he 
had  called  a  "  property,"  and  he  had  told 
it  well. 

The  laugh  broke  the  spell,  and  the  Doc 
tor  echoed  it  heartily. 

"  All  right,  old  man,"  said  the  Critic, 
"  you  owed  me  that  laugh.  You're  wel 


come." 


;t  I  was  only  thinking,"  said  the  Doctor, 
his  face  still  on  a  broad  grin,  "  that  we 
have  always  thought  you  ought  to  have 
been  a  novelist,  and  now  we  know  at  last 
just  what  kind  of  a  novelist  you  would 
have  been." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it,"  said  the  Critic. 
"  That  was  only  improvisatore  —  that's 
no  sample." 

[  77   1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  Ho,  ho !  I'll  bet  you  anything  that 
the  manuscript  is  up  in  your  trunk,  and 
that  you  have  been  committing  it  to  mem 
ory  ever  since  this  idea  was  proposed/' 
said  the  Doctor,  still  laughing. 

"  No,  that  I  deny,"  replied  the  Critic, 
"  but  as  I  am  no  poseur,  I  will  own  that  I 
wrote  it  years  ago,  and  rewrote  it  so  often 
that  I  never  could  forget  it.  I'll  confess 
more  than  that,  the  story  has  been  *  de 
clined  with  thanks  '  by  every  decent  maga 
zine  in  the  States  and  in  England.  Now 
perhaps  some  one  will  tell  me  wrhy." 

"  I  don't  know  the  answer,"  said  the 
Youngster,  seriously,  "  unless  it  is  '  why 
not?'" 

:t  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  were  senti 
mental  twaddle,"  sighed  the  Journalist, 
"  but  I  don't  know:' 

"  I  noticed,"  expostulated  the  Critic, 
"  that  you  all  listened,  enthralled." 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  that  was  a 
tribute  to  your  personal  charm.  You  did 
it  very  well." 

"  Exactly,"  said  the  Critic,  "  if  editors 
would  let  me  read  them  my  stories,  I  could 
sell  them  like  hot  cakes.  I  never  believed 
that  Homer  would  have  lived  as  long  as 
he  has,  if  he  had  not  made  the  reputation 

[  78  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

of  his  tales  by  singing  them  centuries  be 
fore  any  one  tried  to  read  them.  Now 
no  one  dares  to  say  they  bore  him.  The 
reading  public,  and  the  editors  who  cater 
to  it,  are  just  like  some  stupid  theatrical 
managers  I  know  of,  who  will  never  let 
an  author  read  a  play  to  them  for  fear 
that  he  may  give  the  play  some  charm  that 
the  fool  theatrical  man  might  not  have  felt 
from  mere  type-written  words  on  white  or 
yellow  paper.  By  Jove,  I  know  the  case 
of  a  manager  who  once  bought  the  option 
on  a  foreign  play  from  a  scenario  provided 
by  a  clever  friend  of  mine  —  and  paid  a 
stiff  price  for  it,  too,  and  when  he  got  the 
manuscript  wrote  to  the  chap  who  did  the 
scenario  — '  Play  dashety-dashed  rot.  If 
it  had  been  as  good  as  your  scenario,  it 
would  have  gone.'  And,  what  is  more, 
he  sacrificed  the  tidy  five  thousand  he  had 
paid,  and  let  his  option  slide.  Now,  when 
the  fellow  who  did  the  scenario  wrote: 
*  If  you  found  anything  in  the  scenario 
that  you  did  not  discover  in  the  play,  it  is 
because  I  gave  you  the  effect  it  would  have 
behind  the  footlights,  which  you  have  not 
the  imagination  to  see  in  the  printed 
words,'  the  Manager  only  replied  *  You 
are  a  nice  chap.  I  like  you  very  much, 

[  79  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

but  you  are  a  blanketty-blanketty  fool.'  " 

l4  Which  was  right?  "  asked  the  Journal 
ist. 

4  The  scenario  man." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"How  do  I  know?  Why  simply  be1- 
cause  the  play  was  produced  later  —  ran 
five  years,  and  drew  a  couple  of  million 
dollars.  That's  how  I  know/' 

44  By  cricky,"  exclaimed  the  Youngster, 
"  I  believe  he  thinks  his  story  could  earn 
a  million  if  it  had  a  chance." 

"I  don't  say  'no,'"  said  the  Critic, 
yawning,  u  but  it  will  never  get  a  chance. 
I  burned  the  manuscript  this  morning,  and 
now  being  delivered  of  it,  I  have  no  more 
interest  in  it  than  a  sparrow  has  in  her  last 
year's  offspring." 

4  The  trouble  with  you  is  that  you 
haven't  any  patience,  any  staying  power. 
That  ought  to  have  been  a  three  volume 
novel.  We  would  have  heard  all  about 
their  first  meeting,  their  first  love,  their 
separation,  his  marriage,  her  debuts,  etc., 
etc.,"  declared  the  Journalist. 

44  Oh,  thunder,"  said  the  Doctor.     44 1 
think  there  was  quite  enough  of  it.     Don't 
throw   anything   at   me  —  I   liked   it  —  I 
liked  it!     Only  I'm  sorry  she  died." 
[  80  ] 


THE  CRITIC'S  STORY 

"So  am  I,"  said  the  Critic.  "  That 
really  hurt  me." 

"  Because,"  said  the  Doctor,  shying 
away  toward  the  door,  "  I  should  have 
liked  to  know  if  the  child  turned  out  to  be 
a  genius.  That  kind  do  sometimes,"  and 
he  disappeared  into  the  doorway. 

"  Anyhow,"  said  the  Critic,  "  I  am  going 
to  wear  laurels  until  some  one  tells  a  better 
—  and  I'd  like  to  know  why  the  Journalist 
looks  so  pensively  thoughtful?" 

"  I  am  trying  to  recall  who  she  was  — 
Margaret  Dillon." 

"  Don't  fret  —  she  may  be  a  '  poor 
thing/  but  she  is  all  *  mine  own '  —  a 
genuine  creation,  Mr.  Journalist.  I  am 
no  reporter." 

"Ah?  Then  you  are  more  of  a  senti 
mentalist  than  I  even  dared  to  dream." 

"  Don't  deny  it,"  said  the  Critic,  as  he 
rose  and  yawned.  "  So  I  am  going  to  bed 
to  sleep  on  my  laurels  while  I  may.  Good 
night." 

"  Well,"  called  the  Sculptor  after  him, 
as  he  sauntered  away,  "  as  one  of  our 
mutual  friends  used  to  say  '  The  Indian 
Summer  of  Passion  scorches.'  ' 

"  But,  alas!  "  added  the  other,  "  it  does 
not  always  kill." 

[    8!     ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  Witness  — "  began  the  Journalist,  but 
the  Critic  cut  him  short. 

"  As  you  love  me  —  not  that  famous 
list  of  yours  including  so  many  of  the  act 
resses  We  all  know.  I  can't  bear  THAT 
to-night.  After  all  the  French  have  a 
better  phrase  for  it  — '  La  Crise  de  quar- 
ante  ans.'  ' 

The  Nurse  and  Divorcee  had  been  very 
quiet,  but  here  they  locked  hands,  and  the 
former  remarked  that  they  prepared  to 
withdraw: 

"  That  is  our  cue  to  disappear  —  and 
you,  too,  Youngster.  These  men  are  far 
too  wise." 

So  we  of  the  discussed  sex  made  a  circle 
with  our  clasped  hand  about  the  Youngster 
and  danced  him  into  the  house.  The  last 
I  saw  of  the  garden  that  night,  as  I  looked 
out  of  my  window  toward  the  northeast, 
with  "  Namur  "  beating  in  my  head,  the 
five  men  had  their  heads  still  together,  but 
whether  "  the  other  sex "  was  getting 
scientifically  torn  to  bits,  or  they,  too,  had 
Namur  in  their  minds  I  never  knew. 


IV 

THE  'DOCTOR'S  STORY 

AS  ONE  DREAMS 
THE  TALE  OF  AN  ADOLESCENT 

THE  next  day  was  very  peaceful.  We 
were  becoming  habituated  to  the  situation. 
It  was  a  Sunday,  and  the  weather  was 
warm.  There  had  been  no  real  news  so 
far  as  we  knew,  except  that  Japan  had 
lined  up  with  the  Allies.  The  Youngster 
had  come  near  to  striking  fire  by  wonder 
ing  how  the  United  States,  with  her  dis 
like  for  Japan,  would  view  the  entering 
into  line  of  the  yellow  man,  but  the  spark 
flickered  out,  and  I  imagine  we  settled 
down  for  the  story  with  more  eagerness 
than  on  the  previous  evening,  especially 
when  the  Doctor  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  lifted  his  chin  into  the  air,  as 
if  he  were  in  the  tribune.  More  than  one 
of  us  smiled  at  his  resemblance  to  Pierre 
Janet  entering  the  tribune  at  the  College 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

de  France,  and  the  Youngster  said,  under 
his  breath,  "  A  Clinique,  I  suppose. " 

The  Doctor's  ears  were  sharp.  "  Not 
a  bit,"  he  answered,  running  his  keen 
brown  eyes  over  us  to  be  sure  we  were 
listening  before  he  began : 

In  the  days  when  it  was  thought  that  the 
South  End  was  to  be  the  smart  part  of 
Boston,  and  when  streets  were  laid  out 
along  wide  tree  shaded  malls,  with  a  square 
in  the  centre,  in  imitation  of  some  quarters 
of  London, —  for  Boston  was  in  those 
days  much  more  English  in  appearance 
than  it  is  now, —  there  was  in  one  of  those 
squares  a  famous  private  school.  In  those 
days  it  was  rather  smart  to  go  to  a  private 
school.  It  was  in  the  days  before  Boston 
had  much  of  an  immigrant  quarter,  when 
some  smart  families  still  lived  in  the  old 
Colonial  houses  at  the  North  End,  and 
ministers  and  lawyers  and  all  professional 
men  sent  their  sons  and  their  daughters  to 
the  public  schools,  at  that  time  probably 
the  best  in  the  world. 

At  this  private  school,  there  was,  at  the 
time  of  which  I  speak,  what  one  might 
almost  call  a  "  principal  girl." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  banker 

—  his     only     daughter.     The     gods     all 
seemed  to  have  been  very  good  to  her. 
She  was  not  only  a  really  beautiful  girl, 
she  was,  for  her  age,  a  distinguished  girl, 

—  one  of  the  sort  who  seemed  to  do  every 
thing  better  than  any  one  else,  and  with  a 
lack   of   self-consciousness   or   pretension. 
Every   one   admired  her.     Some   of   her 
comrades  would  have  loved  her  if  she  had 
given  them  the  chance.     But  no  one  could 
ever  get  intimate  with  her.     She  came  and 
went  from  school  quite  alone,  in  the  habit 
of  the  American  girl  of  those  days  before 
the   chaperon   became   the   correct   thing. 
She  was  charming  to  every  one,  but  she 
kept  every  one  a  little  at  arm's  length. 
Of  course  such  a  girl  would  be  much  talked 
over  by  the  other  type  of  girl  to  whom  con 
fidences  were  necessary. 

As  always  happens  in  any  school  there 
was  a  popular  teacher.  She  taught  his 
tory  and  literature,  and  I  imagine  girls  get 
more  intimate  with  such  a  teacher  than 
they  ever  do  with  the  mathematics. 

Also,  as  always  happens,  there  was 
a  "  teacher's  pet,"  one  of  those  girls  that 
has  to  adore  something,  and  the  literature 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

teacher,  as  she  was  smart  and  good  look 
ing,  was  as  convenient  to  adore  as  anything 
else, —  and  more  adjacent. 

Of  course  "  teacher's  pet "  never  has 
any  secrets  from  the  teacher,  and  does  not 
mean  to  be  a  sneak  either.  Just  can't  help 
turning  herself  inside  out  for  her  idol,  and 
when  the  heart  of  a  girl  of  seventeen  turns 
itself  inside  out,  almost  always  something 
comes  out  that  is  not  her  business.  That 
was  how  it  happened  that  one  day  the 
literature  teacher  was  told  that  the  u  Prin 
cipal  Girl  "  was  receiving  wonderful  boxes 
of  violets  at  the  school  door,  and  "  Don't 
you  know  ONE  DAY  she  was  seen  by  a 
group  of  pupils  who  happened  to  be  going 
home,  and  were  just  behind  her,  getting 
into  a  closed  carriage  and  driving  away 
from  the  corner  of  the  street!  " 

Now  the  literature  teacher  did  not,  as 
a  rule,  encourage  such  confidences,  but  this 
time  it  seemed  useful.  She  liked  the 
Principal  Girl  —  admired  her,  in  fact. 
She  was  terribly  shocked.  She  warned 
her  pet  to  talk  to  no  one  else,  and  then  she 
went  at  once  to  the  clergyman  who  was  at 
the  head  of  the  school.  She  knew  that  he 
felt  responsible  for  his  pupils,  and  this  had 
an  unpleasant  look.  He  took  the  pains 

[  86  1 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

to  verify  the  two  statements.  Then  there 
was  but  one  thing  to  do  —  to  lay  the  mat 
ter  before  the  parents  of  the  girl. 

Now,  as  so  often  happens  in  American 
families,  the  banker  and  his  wife  stood  in 
some  awe  of  their  daughter.  There  was 
not  that  confidence  between  them  which 
one  traditionally  supposes  to  exist  between 
parents  and  children.  I  imagine  that  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  adolescent  finds  it 
much  easier  to  confide  in  some  one  other 
than  the  parents  who  would  seem  to  be 
her  proper  confidants. 

At  any  rate,  the  banker  and  his  wife 
were  simply  staggered.  They  dared  not 
broach  the  subject  to  the  Principal  Girl, 
and  in  their  distress  turned  to  the  family 
lawyer.  As  they  were  too  cowardly  to 
take  his  first  advice  —  perhaps  they  were 
afraid  the  daughter  would  lie,  they  some 
times  do  in  the  best  regulated  families, — 
it  was  decided  to  put  a  discreet  person  "  on 
the  job,"  and  discover  first  of  all  what  was 
really  going  on. 

The  result  of  the  investigation  was  at 
first  consoling,  and  then  amazing. 

They  discovered  that  the  bunches  of 
violets  were  ordered  at  a  smart  down  town 
florist  by  the  girl  herself,  and  by  her  order 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

delivered  at  the  school  door  by  a  liveried 
messenger  boy,  who,  by  her  orders, 
awaited  her  arrival.  As  for  the  closed 
carriage,  that  she  also  bespoke  herself  at 
a  smart  livery  stable  where  she  was  known. 
When  she  entered  it,  she  was  at  once 
driven  to  the  Park  Street  station,  where 
she  bought  a  round  trip  ticket  to  Waltham. 
There  she  walked  to  the  river,  hired  a 
boat,  rowed  herself  up  stream,  tied  her 
boat  at  a  wooden  bank,  climbed  the  slope, 
and  sat  there  all  the  afternoon,  sometimes 
reading,  and  sometimes  merely  staring  out 
at  the  river,  or  up  at  the  sky.  At  sunset 
she  rowed  back  to  the  town,  returned  to 
the  city,  and  walked  from  the  station  to 
her  home. 

This  all  seemed  simple  enough,  but  it 
puzzled  the  father,  it  made  him  unquiet 
in  his  mind.  Why  all  this  mystery? 
Why  —  well,  why  a  great  many  things, 
for  of  course  the  Principal  Girl  had  to 
prepare  for  these  absences,  and,  although 
the  little  fibs  she  told  were  harmless 
enough  —  well,  why?  The  literature 
teacher,  who  had  been  watching  her  care 
fully,  had  her  theory.  She  knew  a  lot 
about  girls.  Wasn't  she  once  one  herself? 
So  it  was  by  her  advice  that  the  family  doc- 
[  88  ] 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

tor  was  taken  into  the  family  confidence, 
chiefly  because  neither  father  nor  mother 
had  the  pluck  to  tackle  the  matter  —  they 
were  ashamed  to  have  their  daughter 
know  that  she  had  been  caught  in  even  a 
small  deception  —  it  seemed  so  like  intrud 
ing  into  her  intimate  life. 

There  are  parents  like  that,  you  know. 

The  doctor  had  known  the  girl  since  he 
ushered  her  into  the  world.  If  there  were 
any  one  writh  whom  she  had  shown  the 
slightest  sign  of  intimacy,  it  was  with  him. 
Like  all  doctors  whose  associations  are  so 
largely  with  women,  and  who  are  moder 
ately  intelligent  and  temperamental,  he 
knew  a  great  deal  about  the  dangers  of  the 
imagination.  No  one  ever  heard  just 
what  passed  between  the  two.  One  thing 
is  pretty  sure,  he  made  no  secrets  regard 
ing  the  affair,  and  at  the  end  of  the  inter 
view  he  advised  the  parents  to  take  the 
girl  out  of  school,  take  her  abroad,  keep 
her  active,  present  her  at  courts,  show  her 
the  world,  keep  her  occupied,  interest  her, 
keep  her  among  people  whether  she  liked 
it  or  not. 

The  literature  teacher  counted  for  some 
thing  in  the  affair,  and  I  imagine  that  it 
was  never  talked  over  between  the  parents 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

and  daughter,  who  soon  after  left  town 
for  Europe,  and  for  three  years  were  not 
seen  in  Boston. 

When  they  did  return,  it  was  to  an 
nounce  the  marriage  of  the  Principal  Girl 
to  the  son  of  the  family  lawyer,  a  clever 
man,  and  a  rising  politician. 

Relations  between  the  literature  teacher 
and  the  Principal  Girl  had  never  wholly 
broken  off,  so  ten  years  after  the  school 
adventure  it  happened  one  beautiful  day 
in  early  September  that  the  teacher  was  a 
guest  at  the  North  Shore  summer  home  of 
the  Principal  Girl,  now  the  mother  of  two 
handsome  boys. 

That  afternoon  at  tea,  sitting  on  the 
verandah,  watching  the  white  sails  as  the 
yachts  made  for  Marblehead  harbor,  and 
the  long  line  of  surf  beating  against  the 
rugged  rocks  beyond  the  wide  pebbly 
beach  on  which  the  dragging  stones  made 
weird  music,  the  literature  teacher,  sup 
posing  the  old  story  to  be  so  much  an 
cient  history  that  it  could,  as  can  so  many 
of  the  incidents  of  one's  teens,  be  referred 
to  lightly,  had  the  misfortune  to  mention 
it.  To  her  horror,  the  Principal  Girl 
gave  her  one  startled  look,  and  then  rolled 
over  among  the  cushions  of  the  hammock 

[  90  ] 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

in  which  she  was  swinging,  and  burst  into 
a  torrent  of  tears. 

When  the  paroxysm  had  passed,  she  sat 
up,  wiped  her  eyes  in  which,  however, 
there  was  no  laughter,  and  said  passion 
ately  : 

"  I  suppose  you  think  me  the  most  un 
grateful  woman  in  the  world.  I  know 
only  too  well  that  to  many  women  my 
position  has  always  appeared  enviable. 
Poor  things,  if  they  only  knew!  Of 
course,  my  husband  is  a  good  man.  In  all 
ways  I  do  him  perfect  justice.  He  is 
everything  that  is  kind  and  generous  — 
only,  alas,  he  is  not  the  lover  of  my  dreams. 
My  children  are  nice  handsome  boys,  but 
they  are  the  every  day  children  of  every 
day  life.  I  dreamed  another  and  a  differ 
ent  life  in  which  my  children  were  oh,  so 
different,  and  beside  which  the  life  I  try 
to  lead  with  all  the  strength  I  have  is  no 
more  like  the  life  I  dreamed  than  my  boys 
are  like  my  dream  children.  If  you  think 
it  has  not  taken  courage  to  play  the  part 
I  have  played,  I  am  sorry  for  your  lack 
of  insight." 

And  she  got  up,  and  walked  away. 

It  was  as  well,  for,  as  the  literature 
teacher  told  the  doctor  afterward,  it  was 

[  91  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

one  notch  above  her  experience,  and  she 
absolutely  could  have  found  no  word  to 
say.  When  the  Wife  came  back  to  the 
hammock,  ten  minutes  later,  the  cloud  was 
gone  from  her  face,  and  she  never  men 
tioned  the  subject  again.  And  you  may 
be  sure  that  the  literature  teacher  never 
did.  She  always  looked  upon  the  incident 
as  her  worst  moment  of  tactlessness. 

"  Bully,  bully!  "  exclaimed  the  Lawyer. 
"  Take  off  your  laurels,  Critic,  and  crown 
the  Doctor !  " 

"  For  that  little  tale,"  shouted  the 
Critic.  "  Never!  That  has  not  a  bit  of 
literary  merit.  It  has  not  one  rounded 
period." 

"  The  Lawyer  is  a  realist,"  said  the 
Sculptor.  "  Of  course  that  appeals  to 
him." 

"  If  you  want  my  opinion,  I  consider 
that  there  is  just  as  much  imagination  in 
that  story  as  in  the  morbid  rigmarole  you 
threw  at  us  last  night,"  persisted  the  Law 
yer. 

"Why,"  declared  the  Critic,  "I  call 
mine  a  healthy  story  compared  with  this 
one.  It  is  a  shocking  tale  for  the  oper 
ating  room  —  I  mean  the  insane  asylum." 

[  92  ] 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

"  All  right,"  laughed  the  Doctor,  "  then 
we  had  all  better  go  inside  the  sanitarium 
walls  at  once." 

"  Do  you  presume,"  said  the  Journalist, 
"  to  pretend  that  this  is  a  normal  inci 
dent?" 

"  I  am  not  going  into  that.  I  only 
claim  that  more  people  know  the  condition 
than  dare  to  confess  it.  It  is  after  all  only 
symbolic  of  the  duality  of  the  soul  —  or 
call  it  what  you  like.  It  is  the  embodi 
ment  of  a  truth  which  no  one  thinks  of 
denying  —  that  the  spirit  has  its  secrets. 
Imagination  plays  a  great  part  in  most  of 
our  lives  —  it  is  the  glory  that  gilds  our 
facts  —  it  is  the  brilliant  barrier  which 
separates  us  from  the  beasts,  and  the  only 
real  thing  that  divides  us  into  classes, 
though,  of  course,  it  does  not  run  through 
the  world  like  straight  lines  of  latitude  and 
longitude,  but  like  the  lines  of  mean  tem 
perature." 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "  if 
the  Principal  Girl  had  been  obliged  to 
struggle  for  her  living,  the  fact  that  her 
imagination  did  not  run  at  any  point  into 
her  world  of  realities  would  not  have  been 
dangerous." 

"  Naturally  not,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  for 

[  93  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

she  would  have  been  a  great  novelist,  or  a 
poor  one,  and  all  would  have  been  well,  or 
not,  according  to  circumstances." 

"  All  the  same,"  persisted  the  Critic,  "  I 
think  it  a  horrid  story  and  — " 

"  I  think,"  interrupted  the  Doctor, 
"that  you  have  a  vicious  mind,  and — " 
Here  the  Doctor  cast  a  quick  look  in  the 
direction  of  the  Youngster,  who  was 
stretched  out  in  a  steamer  chair  and  had 
not  said  a  word. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  Trained  Nurse, 
"  he  is  fast  asleep."  And  so  he  was. 

"  Just  as  well,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  though  it  does  not  speak  so  well  for  the 
story  as  it  might." 

"  Well,"  laughed  the  Journalist,  "  you 
have  had  a  double  success,  Doctor.  You 
have  been  spontaneously  applauded  by  the 
man  of  law,  and  sent  the  man  of  the  air  to 
faire  dodo.  I  reckon  you  get  the  laurels." 

"  Don't  you  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  award 
the  palm,"  protested  the  Sculptor. 
'  There  are  some  of  us  who  have  not 
spoken  yet.  I  am  going  to  put  some  bril 
liant  touches  on  mine  before  I  give  my 
star  performance." 

"What's   that   about   stars?"   yawned 
the  Youngster,  waking  up  slowly. 
[  94  ] 


THE  DOCTOR'S  STORY 

"  Nothing  except  that  you  have  given 
a  very  distinguished  and  unexpected  star 
performance  as  a  sleeper,"  said  the  Doc 
tor. 

"I  say!"  he  exclaimed,  sitting  up. 
"  By  Jove,  is  the  story  of  the  Principal 
Girl  all  told?  That's  a  shame.  What 
became  of  her?  " 

"You'll  never  know  now,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  Besides,"  said  the  Critic,  "  you  would 
not  understand.  You  are  too  young." 

"  Well,  I  like  your  cheek." 

"  After  all,"  said  the  Journalist,  "  it  is 
only  another  phase  of  the  Dear  Little 
Josephine,  and  I  still  think  that  is  the  ban 
ner  story." 

"  Me,  too,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  we  went 
into  the  house. 

And  I  thought  to  myself,  "  I  can  tell 
a  third  phase  —  the  tragic  —  when  my 
turn  comes,"  and  I  was  the  only  one  who 
knew  that  my  story  would  come  last. 


C  95  3 


V 

THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

UNTO  THIS  END 
THE  TALE  OF  A  VIRGIN 

IT  was  on  August  26th  that  we  were 
first  sure  that  the  Allied  forces  and  the 
German  army  had  actually  come  in  con 
tact.  It  seemed  impossible  for  us  to  real 
ize  it,  but,  in  the  afternoon  the  Doctor, 
the  Lawyer,  and  the  Youngster  took  one 
of  the  cars,  and  made  a  run  to  the  north 
east.  The  news  they  brought  back  did  not 
at  all  coincide  with  the  hopeful  tone  of  the 
morning  papers.  In  fact  it  was  not  only 
evident  that  the  fall  of  Namur  had  been 
followed  almost  immediately  by  that  of 
Mons  and  Charleroi,  but  that  the  German 
hordes  were  well  over  the  French  fron 
tier,  and  advancing  rapidly,  and  the  Al 
lied  armies  simply  flying  before  them. 

The  odd  part  was,  that  though  the 
Youngster  said  that  they  had  only  run  out 

[  96  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

fifty  miles,  they  had  heard  the  guns,  and 
"  the  Doctor  thinks,"  he  added,  under  his 
breath,  "  that  we  may  be  able  to  stick  it 
out  to  the  last  day  of  the  month.  Any 
way,  I  advise  you  girls  to  look  over  your 
kits.  We  may  fly  in  a  hurry  —  such  of 
us  as  must  fly." 

However,  we  managed  to  get  through 
dinner  quite  gaily.  We  simply  could  not 
realize  the  menace,  and  the  Doctor  evi 
dently  meant  that  we  should  not.  He  was 
in  gayer  spirits  than  he  had  been  since  the 
days  of  the  great  discussions,  and  after 
the  few  facts  he  had  brought  back  were 
given  us,  he  kept  the  talk  on  other  mat 
ters,  until  the  Sculptor,  who  had  been  lying 
back  in  his  chair,  blowing  smoke  rings  in 
the  air,  stretched  himself  into  his  most 
graceful  position,  and  called  attention  even 
to  his  pose,  before  he  threw  his  cigarette 
far  from  him  with  a  fine  gesture,  settled 
his  handsome  head  into  his  clasped  hands, 
and  began: 

I  had  been  ten  years  abroad. 

In  all  that  time  I  had  been  idle,  pros 
perous,  and  wretched. 

Every  time  Fate  wrenched  my  heart 
with  one  of  her  long  thin  pitiless  hands, 

[  97   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

she  recompensed  me  with  what  the  world 
calls  "  good  luck."  Every  hope  I  had 
cherished  failed  me.  Every  faith  I  had 
harbored  deserted  me.  Every  venture  in 
which  neither  heart  nor  soul  was  con 
cerned  flourished  and  flaunted  its  success 
in  the  face  of  the  world,  where  I  was  con 
sidered  a  very  fortunate  man. 

In  the  ten  years  of  my  exile  I  had  trav 
elled  much,  had  been  in  contact  with  all 
kinds  of  people,  had  served  some,  and 
tried  in  vain  to  be  concerned  for  them 
while  I  served.  If  it  had  been  my  fate  to 
make  no  friends,  it  was  within  my  choice 
to  be  never  alone. 

I  had  that  in  my  memory  which  I 
hoarded,  and  yet  with  which  I  would  not 
allow  myself  to  be  deliberately  alone. 
The  most  terrible  hours  of  my  life  were 
those  when,  toward  morning,  the  rest  of 
the  world  —  all  the  world  save  me  —  hav 
ing  no  past  to  escape,  no  enticing  phantom 
to  flee,  went  peacefully  off  to  bed,  and  I 
was  left  alone  in  the  night  to  drug  mem 
ory,  fight  off  thought,  outwit  imagination 
by  any  means  that  I  might  —  and  some  of 
them  were  desperate  enough. 

Ten  years  had  passed  thus. 

[  98  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

Another  tenth  of  August  had  come 
round ! 

Only  a  man  who  has  but  one  anniversary 
in  his  life,  the  backward  and  forward 
shadows  of  which  make  an  unbroken  cir 
cle  over  the  whole  year,  can  appreciate  my 
existence.  One  cannot  escape  such  a  date. 
You  may  never  speak  of  it.  You  may 
forswear  calendars,  abjure  newspapers,  re 
fuse  to  date  a  letter;  you  may  even  lose 
days  in  a  drunken  stupor.  Still  there  is 
that  in  your  heart  and  your  brain  which 
keeps  the  reckoning.  The  hour  will 
strike,  in  spite  of  you,  when  the  day  comes 
round  on  the  dial  of  the  year. 

I  had  been  living  for  some  time  in  a 
city  far  distant  from  my  native  land. 
Half  the  world  stretched  on  either  side  be 
tween  me  and  the  spot  I  tried  to  forget, 
and  which  floated  forever,  like  a  vision, 
between  me  and  reality. 

I  had  remained  longer  than  usual  in  this 
city,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  was  the 
hot  season,  and  while  the  natives  could 
stand  it  by  day,  visitors,  unused  to  the 
heat,  were  forced  to  sleep  by  day  and  wan 
der  abroad  by  night,  a  condition  that  made 
it  possible  for  me  to  feel  my  fellowmen 

[  99  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

about  me  nearly  the  entire  twenty-four 
hours. 

It  was  night. 

I  was  sitting  alone  on  the  balcony  of  my 
room,  looking  down  on  to  the  crowded 
bridges  of  the  city  where  throngs  were 
passing,  and  filled  my  eyes  and  mind. 

It  was  the  very  hour  at  which  I  had  last 
seen  her.  There  was  no  clock  in  sight  — 
I  always  guarded  against  that  in  selecting 
my  room.  I  had  long  ceased  to  carry  a 
watch. 

Yet  I  knew  the  hour. 

I  had  been  sitting  there  for  hours 
watching  the  crowd.  I  had  not  been 
drinking.  I  had  long  ago  abandoned 
that.  No  stimulant  could  blur  the  fixed 
regret,  no  narcotic  numb  my  full  sense  of 
it.  Sleep,  whether  I  rose  to  it,  or  fell  to 
it  —  only  brought  me  dreams  of  her. 
Desperate  nourishing  of  a  great  misery,  in 
a  nature  that  resented  it,  even  while  cher 
ishing  it,  had  made  me  a  conscious  mono 
maniac.  Fate  had  thwarted  me,  and  dis 
torted  me.  I  had  become  jealous  and 
morbid,  bitterly  reviling  my  hurt,  but  vio 
lently  preventing  its  healing. 

There  was  a  moon  —  just  as  there  had 
been  that  night,  only  now  it  fell  on  a  many 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

bridged  river  across  which  were  ghostly 
cypress  trees,  rising  along  the  hill-side  to 
a  strangely  outlined  church  behind  ruined 
fortifications.  I  was  wondering,  against 
my  will,  at  what  hour  that  moon  rose  over 
the  distant  New  England  village,  which 
came  before  me  in  a  vision  that  wiped  out 
the  wooded  heights  of  reality. 

Suddenly  all  the  pain  dropped  away 
from  me. 

I  drew  a  long  breath  in  amazement. 

Where  was  the  weight  under  which  I 
had  staggered,  mentally,  all  these  years? 
Whence  came  the  peace  that  had  so  sud 
denly  descended  upon  me?  In  an  instant 
it  had  passed,  and  I  could  only  remember 
my  bitter  mood  of  ten  years  as  if  it  had 
been  a  dream  that  I  had  lived  so  long  un- 
consoled  by  that  great  healer,  Time. 

As  the  torturing  jealousy  dropped  from 
me,  a  gentle  sadness  took  its  place.  In  an 
instant  my  mind  was  made  up.  I  would 
go  back. 

This  idea,  which  had  never  come  to  me 
in  ten  years,  seemed  now  perfectly  natu 
ral.  I  would  return  at  once  to  that  far  off 
village  where,  for  a  brief  hour,  I  had 
dwelt  in  a  "  Fool's  Paradise,"  through 
which  my  way  had  lain  but  a  brief  span, 

[    101    ] 


TOLD  TN  A  FKENCH  GARDEN 

and  where  I  had  passed,  like  the  fabled 
bird,  that  "  floats  through  Heaven,  but 
cannot  light." 

I  remember  but  little  of  the  journey 
home,  save  that  it  was  long,  and  that  I 
slept  much.  But  whether  it  was  months 
or  years  I  never  knew.  I  seemed  to  be 
making  up  what  I  had  lost  in  ten  years. 
Time  occupied  itself  in  restoring  the  bal 
ance  I  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  upset. 

It  was  night  when  I  reached  the  place 
at  last. 

I  found  it  as  I  had  left  it.  Had  a 
magic  sleep  settled  there  it  could  not  have 
been  less  changed. 

I  was  recognized  in  the  small  bare  office 
of  the  one  tavern.  I  felt  that  my  sudden 
appearance  surprised  no  one.  But  I  did 
not  wonder  why. 

Oddly  enough,  I  never  asked  a  question. 
I  had  not  even  questioned  myself  as  to  what 
I  expected  to  find.  Years  afterward  I  was 
convinced,  in  reviewing  the  matter,  that 
my  soul  had  known  from  the  first. 

I  dined  alone,  quite  calmly,  after  which 

I  stepped  out  into  the  starlight.     I  turned 

up  the  hill,  and  struck  into  the  familiar 

road  I  had  so  often  travelled  in  the  old 

[   102  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

days.  It  led  toward  the  river,  and  along 
the  steep  bank  of  the  rapid  noisy  stream. 
The  chill  wind  of  an  early  autumn  night 
moaned  sadly  in  the  tall  trees,  and  the 
dead  leaves  under  my  feet  rustled  a  sad 
accompaniment  to  my  thoughts,  which  at 
last,  unhooded,  flew  back  to  the  past 

Below  rushed  the  river,  whose  torrent 
had  ever  been  an  accompaniemnt  to  all  my 
recollections  of  her  —  as  inseparable  from 
them  as  the  color  of  her  eyes,  or  the  tones 
of  her  voice. 

I  could  not  but  contrast  my  present  calm 
with  the  mad  humor  in  which  I  had  last 
rushed  down  the  slope  I  was  so  quietly 
climbing.  As  I  went  forward,  I  began  to 
ask  myself,  "Why?"  I  could  not  an 
swer  that,  but  I  began  to  hurry. 

Suddenly  I  stopped. 

The  moon  had  emerged  above  the  trees 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  It 
struck  and  illumined  something  white 
above  me.  I  was  standing  exactly  where 
I  had  stood  on  that  fatal  tenth  of  August, 
so  many  years  before. 

I  came  to  my  senses  as  if  by  an  electric 
shock. 

At  last  everything  was  clear  to  me.  At 
last  I  understood  whence  had  gone  all  my 

[  103  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

vanity  and  jealousy.  At  last  I  understood 
the  spell  of  peace  that  had  settled  on  me 
in  that  moonlit  tenth  of  August,  in  that  far 
off  city. 

My  burden  had  passed  through  the  Val 
ley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  with  her  — 
for  I  was  standing  at  the  door  of  her 
tomb! 

I  did  not  question.  I  knew,  I  compre 
hended. 

In  no  other  way  could  I  have  found  such 
calm. 

Though  I  flung  myself  on  the  shining 
marble  steps  that  led  in  the  moonlight  up 
to  the  top  of  the  knoll  where  the  tomb 
stood,  I  had  no  tears  to  shed. 

The  present  floated  still  further  away. 

Even  the  rush  of  the  torrent  died  out  of 
my  ears. 

Once  more  it  seemed  to  me  that  lovely 
day  in  May  when  we  three  had  marched, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  down  the  city  street 
—  that  spring  day  in  the  early  sixties, 
when  the  North  was  sending  her  flower  to 
fight  for  a  united  country. 

Again  I  felt  the  warm  sunshine  on  my 
head. 

Once  more  I  heard  the  ringing  cheers, 
saw  the  floating  flags,  and  the  faces  of 

[    104  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

women  who  wept  as  well  as  women  who 
smiled  in  the  throngs  that  lined  the  street. 

Just  as  in  all  my  life  it  had  been  his  emo 
tions  and  his  enthusiasms  that  led  me,  it 
was  his  excitement  that  impelled  me  for 
ward  at  this  moment.  His  was  the  hand 
that  in  my  school  days,  at  college,  in  our 
Bohemian  days  abroad,  had  swept  my  re 
sponsive  nature  as  a  master  hand  strikes 
a  harp,  and  made  harmonies  or  discords 
at  his  will  —  or,  I  should  say,  according 
to  his  mood. 

I  used  to  think  in  those  days  that  he 
never  willfully  wronged  any  one,  but  I 
had  to  own  also  that  he  never  deliberately 
sacrificed  himself  for  any  one.  And,  if  I 
were  the  victim  of  his  temperament,  he 
was  no  less  so.  But  he  was  an  artist.  I 
was  not.  All  things  either  good  or  bad 
were  merely  material  to  him.  With  me  it 
was  different. 

He  and  I  were  alone  in  the  world.  But 
beside  us  marched,  that  May  morning, 
with  the  glory  of  youth  on  his  handsome 
but  weak  face,  one  whose  "  baptism  of 
fire  "  was  to  make  him  a  hero,  who  had 
else  been  remembered  a  coward. 
,  The  story  of  the  girl  he  had  wronged, 
and  fear  of  whom  had  even  reconciled  l*i.s 

[  105  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

family  to  his  enlisting,  was  common  prop 
erty,  and  had  been  for  several  seasons. 
There  was  a  child,  too,  a  little  daughter, 
fondly  loved,  but  unacknowledged,  the 
fame  of  whose  childish  beauty  many  a 
heedless  voice  had  already  sung. 

He,  poor  youngster,  looked  on  his  all 
that  morning. 

Once  more  I  saw  the  flag  draped  house 
where  his  mother  waved  a  brave  farewell 
to  him. 

But  there  was  another  later  picture  in 
my  mind.  Again  I  heard  the  blare  of  the 
band  before  us  as  it  flung  its  satire  of 
"  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me,"  into  the 
spring  air.  I  saw  once  more  in  my  mind 
the  child,  with  her  floating  red  gold  curls, 
raised  above  the  crowd  on  the  shoulders  of 
tall  men.  Her  eyes  were  too  young  for 
tears  —  and  for  that  matter,  tears  came 
to  her  but  seldom  in  later  years  —  and  the 
lips  that  shouted  "  bood-bye  "  smiled,  un 
conscious  of  bravery,  as  she  swung  her  hat 
with  its  symbolic  colors  above  her  shining 
head. 

That  was  the  picture  that  three  of  us 
carried  to  the  front. 

We  left  him  —  all  his  errors  redeemed 
[  106  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

by  a  noble  death  —  with  his  face  turned  up 
to  the  stars,  as  silent,  as  mysterious  as  they, 
after  our  first  battle. 

From  the  horrors  of  that  night  we  two 
came  away  bound  by  an  oath  to  care  for 
that  child. 

Again  my  memory  shifted  to  the  days 
that  found  her  a  woman.  Fair,  beautiful, 
dainty,  her  father's  daughter  in  looks,  but 
inheriting  from  a  rare  mother  a  peculiar 
strength  of  character,  a  moral  force  rarely 
found  with  such  a  temperament  and  such 
beauty. 

We  had  aided  to  raise  her  as  became  the 
child  of  her  father,  whose  story  she  knew 
as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  understand,  but 
she  knew  it  from  the  lips  of  the  brave 
mother,  who  cherished  his  memory.  Un 
til  she  was  a  woman  grown  it  was  I,  how 
ever,  who,  of  her  two  self-appointed 
guardians,  had  watched  over  her.  Chil 
dren  did  not  interest  him. 

He  had  married  some  years  before  that 
time,  married  well  with  an  eye  to  a  calm 
comfortable  future,  as  became  an  artist 
who  could  not  be  hampered  by  the  need 
of  money. 

[  107  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Indeed,  it  was  not  until  he  knew  that  I 
was  to  marry  her  that  he  really  looked  at 
her. 

And  I,  with  all  my  experience  of  him, 
simply  because  I  was  never  able  to  under 
stand  the  dual  nature,  failed  at  that  fatal 
hour  when  we  stood  together  beside  our 
protegee  to  apply  to  the  situation  the 
knowledge  that  years  of  experience  should 
have  taught  me. 

I  was  so  bound  up  in  my  own  feelings 
that  I  failed  to  remember  that,  until  then, 
I  had  never  had  a  great  emotion  that 
his  nature  had  not  acted  as  a  lens  in  the 
kindling. 

Then,  too,  there  was  a  dense  sense  of 
the  conventional  —  a  logical  enough 
birthright  —  in  my  make-up.  I,  who  had 
known  him  so  long,  so  well,  seemed,  never 
theless,  when  he  married,  to  have  fancied 
there  was  some  hocus-pocus  in  the  cere 
mony,  which  should  make  a  definite  change 
in  a  man's  character,  as  well  as  a  presum 
able  change  in  his  way  of  life. 

It  must  have  been  that  there,  in  the 
open,  at  the  foot  of  the  knoll,  I  slept,  as 
one  does  the  first  night  after  a  long 
awaited  death,  when  the  relief  that  pain  is 
passed,  and  suspense  ended,  deadens  grief. 
[  108  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

She  was  no  longer  in  this  world  of  torture. 
That  helped  me. 

The  next  I  knew,  it  was  the  sun,  and  not 
the  moon  which  was  shining  on  me. 

The  wind  had  stilled  its  sobbing  in  the 
trees. 

Only  the  rushing  of  the  river  sounded 
in  my  ears. 

I  rose  slowly,  and  mounted  the  steps. 

A  tiny  white  marble  mosque  of  wonder 
ful  beauty  —  for  he  who  erected  it  was 
one  of  the  world's  great  artists,  whose 
wrorks  will  live  to  glorify  his  name  and  his 
art  when  all  his  follies  shall  have  been  for 
gotten  —  stood  in  a  court  paved  with  mar 
ble. 

It  was  encircled  with  a  low  coping  of  the 
whitest  of  stone.  Over  this  low  wall  vines 
were  already  growing,  and  the  woodbine 
that  was  mingled  with  it  was  stained  with 
those  glorious  tints  in  which  Nature  says 
to  life,  "  Even  death  is  beautiful." 

The  wide  bronze  doors  on  either  side 
were  open. 

I  accepted  the  fact  without  even  wonder 
ing  why  —  or  asking  myself  who,  in  open 
ing  them,  had  discovered  my  presence  1 

I  entered. 

[    109   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

For  a  brief  time  I  stood  once  more 
within  the  room  where  she  lay. 

An  awful  peace  fell  on  my  soul,  as  if 
her  soul  had  whispered  in  the  words  we 
had  so  often  read  together: 

"  I  lie  so  composedly 
"  Now  in  my  bed  — " 

I  knew  at  last,  as  I  gazed,  that  all  her 
life,  and  all  mine,  as  well,  had  been  to  his 
profit.  That  out  of  this,  too,  he  had 
wrought  some  of  his  greatness. 

The  interior  of  the  vault  was  of  red 
marble,  and,  such  of  chiselling  as  there  was 
done,  seemed  wonderful  to  me  even  in  my 
frame  of  mind.  I  took  it  all  in,  through 
unwilling,  though  fascinated  eyes. 

I  have  never  seen  it  since.  I  can  never 
forget  it. 

Yet  art  is,  and  always  has  been,  so  much 
to  me,  that  I  could  not  help,  even  in  my 
strangely  wrought-up  mental  condition, 
comprehending  and  admiring  his  scheme 
and  the  masterly  manner  in  which  he  had 
worked  it  out. 

At  my  feet,  as  I  stood  on  the  threshold, 

was  an  elaborate  scroll  engraved  on  the 

stone  and  surrounded  with  a  wreath  of 

leaves,  that  vied  with  the  tombs  of  the  old 

[  no  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

world.  As  I  gazed  at  it,  and  read  the 
gothic  letters  in  which  it  was  set  forth  that 
this  monument  was  erected  in  adoration  of 
this  woman,  how  well  I  remembered  the 
day  when  we  had  crouched  together  over 
those  stones  in  the  crypt  at  Certosa,  to 
admire  the  chiselling  of  Donatello  which 
had  inspired  this. 

There  was  a  space  left  for  the  signature 
of  the  artist,  which  would,  I  knew,  some 
day  be  written  there  boldly  enough ! 

In  the  centre  stood  the  sarcophagus. 

I  felt  its  presence,  though  my  eyes 
avoided  it. 

Above,  on  the  wall,  were  the  words 
borne  along  by  carved  angels : 

"  My  love  she  sleeps:  Oh,  may  her  sleep 
As  it  was  lasting,  so  be  deep." 

And  I  seemed  to  hear  her  voice  intone 
the  words  as  I  had  heard  them  from  her 
lips  so  many  times. 

And  then  my  eyes  fell  —  on  her !  Aye ! 
On  her,  stretched  at  full  length  in  her 
warm  and  glorious  tomb.  For  above  her 
mortal  remains  slept  her  effigy  wrought 
with  all  the  skill  of  a  great  art. 

I  had  feared  to  look  upon  it,  but  hav 
ing  looked,  I  felt  that  I  could  never  tear 

[   in   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

myself  away  from  its  peace  and  loveliness. 

The  long  folds  of  the  drapery  fell 
straight  from  the  small,  round  throat  to 
the  tiny  unshod  feet,  and  so  wonderfully 
was  it  wrought,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
living  beautiful  flesh  of  the  slender  body 
was  still  quick  beneath  it.  The  exquisite 
hands  that  I  knew  so  well  —  so  delicate, 
and  yet  so  strong  —  were  gently  crossed 
upon  her  breast,  and  her  arms  held  a  long 
stemmed  lily,  emblem  of  purity,  and  it 
looked  to  me  there  like  a  martyr's  palm. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  pale  reflection  from 
the  red  walls,  but  the  figure  seemed  too 
real  to  be  mere  stone ! 

I  forgot  the  irony  of  the  fact  that  I  was 
merely  seeing  her  through  his  eyes  —  the 
eyes  of  the  man  who  had  robbed  me.  I 
felt  only  her  presence.  I  fell  on  my 
knees.  I  flung  my  arms  across  the  beauti 
ful  form  —  no  colder  to  my  embrace  than 
had  been  the  living  woman!  As  I  re 
coiled  from  the  death-like  touch,  my  eyes 
fell  on  the  words  carved  on  the  face  of  the 
sarcophagus,  and  once  more,  it  was  like 
the  voice  that  was  hushed  in  my  ears. 

"  I  pray  to  God  that  she  may  lie 
Forever  with  unopened  eye 
While  the  dim  sheeted  ghosts  go  by." 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

"  Amen,"  I  said,  with  all  my  heart,  to 
the  words  he  had  carved  above  her,  for 
what,  after  the  fever  of  such  a  life,  could 
be  so  welcome  to  her  as  dreamless,  eternal 
silence,  in  which  there  would  be  no  more 
passion,  no  more  struggling,  no  more  love? 

And,  if  I  wished  with  all  my  soul,  that 
the  great  surprise  of  death  might,  for  her, 
have  been  peace  and  silence,  did  I  not  bar 
myself  as  well  as  him  from  the  hope  of 
Heaven? 

How  long  I  stood  there,  with  hungry 
eyes  devouring  the  marble  effigy  of  her  I 
so  loved  —  now  tortured  by  its  fidelity, 
now  punished  by  its  coldness  —  I  never 
knew. 

Sometimes  I  noticed  the  changing  of  the 
light,  the  shifting  of  the  shadows,  as  the 
sun  swung  steadily  upward,  but  it  was  a 
subconscious  observation  which  did  not  re 
call  me  to  myself  and  the  present. 

Back,  back  turned  my  thoughts  to  the 
past. 

Here,  where  she  now  lay  in  her  gor 
geous  tomb,  had  then  stood  an  arbor,  and 
below  had  roared  the  rushing  river. 

It  was  the  night  of  our  wedding. 

Then,  as  now,  on  this  very  spot,  I  had 
looked  down  on  that  fair  pale  face,  and 

c  us  i 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

then  it  had  given  me  back  a  gaze  as  life 
less  as  this. 

I  had  missed  my  bride  from  the  little 
throng  in  the  quaint  house  beyond.  I  had 
stolen  out  to  seek  her.  Instinctively  I  had 
turned  to  the  old  arbor  above  the  river, 
where  her  hours  of  meditation  had  always 
been  passed. 

It  was  there  I  had  found  her  as  a  child, 
when  I  came  to  bring  her  father's  dying 
message.  It  was  there  I  had  asked  her  to 
become  my  wife.  It  was  there  we  three 
had  first  stood  together. 

For  a  week  before  the  wedding  she  had 
been  in  a  strange  mood,  tearless,  but  nerv 
ous,  and  sad !  Still,  it  had  not  seemed  to 
me  an  unnatural  mood  in  such  a  woman, 
on  the  eve  of  her  marriage. 

Fate  is  ironical. 

I  remembered  that  I  was  serenely  happy 
as  I  sped  up  the  hill  in  search  of  her,  and 
so  sure  that  I  knew  where  to  find  her. 
Light  scudding  clouds  crossed  the  track 
of  the  moon,  which,  with  a  broadly  smil 
ing  face,  rolled  up  the  heavens  at  a  spin 
ning  pace,  now  appearing,  now  disappear 
ing  behind  the  flying  clouds. 

I  was  humming  gaily  as  I  strode  along 
the  narrow  path.  Nothing  tugged  at  my 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

heart  strings  to  warn  me  of  approaching 
sorrow.  There  was  no  signal  in  all  na 
ture  to  prepare  me  for  the  end  in  a  com 
plete  shipwreck  of  all  my  dreams.  The 
peace  about  me  gave  no  hint  of  its  cynic 
ism.  Nothing,  either  within  or  without, 
hinted  that  my  hours  of  happiness  and  con 
tent  were  running  out  rapidly  to  the  last 
sand! 

I  had  reached  the  shallow  steps  that  led 
up  the  knoll  to  the  arbor ! 

At  that  moment  the  clouds  were  swept 
off  from  the  face  of  the  moon,  and  the 
white  light  fell  full  on  her. 

But  she  was  not  alone.  She  rested  in 
the  arms  of  my  friend,  as,  God  help  me, 
she  had  never  rested  in  mine  —  in  an  aban 
don  that  was  only  too  eloquent. 

What  was  said? 

Who  but  God  knows  that  now  ? 

What  do  men  like  us,  who  have  thought 
themselves  one  in  all  things,  until  one  love 
rends  them  asunder,  say  at  such  a  time? 
As  for  me,  I  cannot  recall  a  word! 

I  did  not  even  see  his  face. 

I  think  he  saw  mine  no  more. 

We  seemed  to  see  into  the  soul  of  each 
other,  through  the  very  heart  of  that  frail 
woman  between  us,  that  slender  creature  in 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

the  bridal  dress,  who  sank  down  before  us, 
as  if  the  colliding  passions  of  two  strong 
men  had  killed  her. 

It  was  he  who  raised  her  up.  His 
hands  placed  her  in  my  arms.  No  need  to 
say  that  she  was  blameless.  I  knew  all 
that. 

It  was  only  Fate  after  all,  that  I  blamed, 
yet  the  fatalist  is  human.  He  suffers  in 
living  like  other  men  —  sometimes  more, 
because  he  refuses  to  struggle  in  the 
clutches  of  Chance ! 

As  I  gazed  down  into  her  white  face,  I 
heard  the  steps  of  my  friend,  even  above 
the  roaring  of  the  river,  as  he  strode  down 
the  hillside,  out  of  my  life !  And  I  know 
not  even  to-day  which  was  the  bitterest 
grief,  the  loss  of  my  faith  in  being  loved, 
or  the  passing  from  my  heart  of  that  man ! 

Of  the  pain  of  the  night  that  followed, 
only  the  silence  and  our  own  hearts  knew. 

Love  and  passion  are  so  twinned  in 
some  hours  of  life  that  one  cannot  distin 
guish  in  himself  the  one  from  the  other. 

Into  my  keeping  "  to  have  and  to  hold," 

the  law  had  given  this  beautiful  woman, 

"  until  death  should  us  part."     I   loved 

her!     But,    out    of    her    heart,    at    once 

[  "6  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

stronger  and  weaker  than  mine,  my  friend 
had  barred  me. 

It  is  not  in  hours  like  these,  that  all  men 
can  be  sane. 

I  thought  of  what  might  have  been,  if 
they  had  not  met  that  night,  and  my  ig 
noble  side  craved  ignorance  of  that 
Chance,  or  the  brutality  to  ignore  it. 

I  looked  down  into  that  cold  face  as  I 
laid  her  from  the  arms  that  had  borne  her 
down  the  hill  —  laid  her  on  what  was  to 
have  been  her  nuptial  couch  —  and  closed 
the  door  between  us  and  all  the  world. 

We  were  together  —  alone  —  at  last! 

I  had  dreamed  of  this  hour.  Here  was 
its  realization.  I  watched  the  misery  of 
remembrance  dawn  slowly  on  her  white 
face.  I  pitied  her  as  I  gazed  at  her,  yet 
my  whole  being  cried  out  in  rage  at  its 
own  pity.  On  her  trembling  lips  I 
seemed  to  see  his  kisses.  In  her  fright 
ened  eyes  I  saw  his  image.  The  shudder 
that  shook  her  whole  body  as  her  eyes 
held  mine,  confessed  him  —  and  that  con 
fession  kept  me  at  bay. 

All  that  night  I  sat  beside  her. 

What  mad  words  I  uttered  a  merciful 
nature  never  let  me  recall. 

[   "7  1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

In  the  chill  dawn  I  fled  from  her  pres 
ence. 

The  width  of  the  world  had  lain  be 
tween  us,  me  —  and  this  woman  whom  I 
had  worshipped,  of  whom  a  consuming 
jealousy  had  made  ten  years  of  my  life  a 
mad  fever,  which  only  her  death  had 
cured.  Saner  men  have  protested  against 
the  same  situation  that  ruined  me  —  and 
yet,  even  in  my  reasoning  moments,  like 
this,  I  knew  that  to  have  rebelled  would 
have  been  to  have  forced  a  tragic  climax 
before  the  hour  at  which  Fate  had  fixed  it. 

When  something  —  I  know  not  what  — 
recalled  me  again  to  the  present,  I  found 
that  I  had  sat  by  her  a  day,  as,  on  our  last 
meeting,  I  watched  out  the  night.  The 
sun,  which  had  sent  its  almost  level  rays 
in  at  the  east  door  of  the  tomb  when  I  en 
tered,  was  now  shining  in  brilliant  almost 
level  rays  in  at  the  west. 

The  day  was  passing. 

A  shadow  fell  from  the  opposite  door. 
I  became  suddenly  conscious  of  his  pres 
ence,  and,  once  more,  across  her  body,  I 
looked  into  my  friend's  eyes. 

Between  us,  as  on  that  dreadful  night, 
she  was  stretched ! 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

But  she  was  at  peace. 

Our  colliding  emotions  might  rend  us, 
they  could  never  again  tear  at  her  gentle 
heart.  That  was  at  rest. 

Over  her  we  stood  once  more,  as  if 
years  had  not  passed  —  years  of  silence. 

Above  the  woman  we  had  both  loved, 
we  two,  who  had  stood  shoulder  to  shoul 
der  in  battle,  been  one  in  thought  and  am 
bition  until  passion  rent  us  asunder,  met 
as  we  parted,  but  she  was  at  peace ! 

We  had  severed  without  farewells. 

We  met  without  greetings. 

We  stood  in  silence  until  he  waved  me 
to  a  broad  seat  behind  me,  and  sank  into 
a  similar  niche  opposite. 

We  sat  in  the  shadow. 

She  lay  between  us  in  the  level  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  which  fell  across  her  from 
the  wide  portal,  and  once  more  our  eyes 
met  on  her  face,  but  they  would  not  disturb 
her  calm. 

His  influence  was  once  more  upon  me. 

In  the  silence  —  for  it  was  some  time 
before  he  spoke,  and  I  was  dumb  —  my 
accursed  eye  for  detail  had  taken  in  the 
change  in  him.  Yet  I  fancied  I  was  not 
looking  at  him.  I  noted  that  he  had  aged 
—  that  this  was  one  of  the  periods  in  him 

[  "9  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

which  I  knew  so  well  —  when  a  passion  for 
work  was  on  him,  and  the  fever  and  fervor 
of  creation  trained  him  down  like  a  race 
horse,  all  spirit  and  force.  I  noted  that 
he  still  wore  the  velveteens  and  the  broad 
hat  and  loose  open  collar  of  his  student 
days. 

Sitting  on  either  side  of  the  tomb  he  had 
built  to  enshrine  her,  on  carved  marble 
seats  such  as  Tuscan  poets  sat  on,  in  the 
old  days,  to  sing  to  fair  women,  with  our 
gaze  focussed  on  the  long  white  form  be 
tween  us  —  ah,  between  us  indeed!  —  his 
voice  broke  the  long  silence. 

He  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  and  the  broad  brim  of  his  soft  hat 
swept  the  marble  floor  with  a  gentle  rhyth 
mic  swish,  as  it  swung  idly  from  his  loos 
ened  grasp.  I  heard  it  as  an  accompani 
ment  to  his  voice. 

His  eyes  never  once  strayed  from  her 
face. 

'  You  think  you  are  to  be  pitied/'  he 
said.  "You  are  wrong!  No  one  who 
has  not  sinned  against  another  needs  pity. 
I  meant  you  no  harm.  Fate  —  my  tem 
perament,  your  immobility,  the  very  gifts 
that  have  made  me  what  I  am  were  to 
blame  —  if  blame  there  were.  Every  one 
[  120  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

of  us  must  live  out  his  life,  according  to 
his  nature.  I,  as  well  as  you ! 

"  When,  on  this  very  spot  where  we  last 
parted,  you  told  me  that  you  loved  her,  I 
swear  to  you,  if  need  be,  that  I  rejoiced. 
I  was  glad  that  she  would  have  you  to 
make  the  future  smooth  for  her.  Later  I 
grew  to  envy  you.  It  was  for  your  safety, 
as  well  as  mine  and  hers,  that  I  decided  to 
see  neither  of  you  again  until  she  had  been 
some  time  your  wife.  No  word  of  love, 
no  confidence  of  any  kind,  had  ever  passed 
between  us.  When  I  wrote  you  that  I 
should  not  be  here  to  see  you  married,  and 
when  not  even  your  reproaches  could  move 
me,  I  had  already  engaged  my  passage  on 
a  sailing  ship  bound  for  the  Azores.  I 
had  planned  to  put  a  long  uncertain  voyage 
between  you  and  any  possibility  that  I 
might  mar  your  chances  for  happiness,  for 
the  nearer  the  day  came,  the  more  —  in 
spite  of  myself  —  I  resented  it! 

"  My  good  intentions  were  thwarted  by 
—  Fate. 

"  For  some  reason,  forgotten  and  unim 
portant,  the  Captain  deferred  lifting  an 
chor  for  a  whole  week.  I  called  myself 
unpretty  names  for  thinking  that  I  could 
not  even  see  her  without  danger.  I  de- 


*        TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

spised  myself  for  the  judgment  that  ac 
cused  me  of  being  such  a  scamp  as  to  think 
I  would  do  anything  to  rob  her  of  the  pro 
tection  and  safety  you  could  give  her,  and 
I  could  not,  and  an  egoist  for  being  pos 
sessed  with  the  idea  that  I  could  if  I  would. 

"  Suddenly  I  felt  quite  sure  of  myself. 

"  Yet  I  had  meant  to  see  her  without 
being  seen,  when  I  hurried  so  unexpectedly 
down  here  on  your  wedding  night.  I  fan 
cied  I  only  longed  to  see  what  a  lovely 
bride  she  would  make  —  she  who  as  a 
child,  a  girl,  a  maiden,  had  been  in  your 
eyes  the  most  exquisite  creature  you  had 
ever  known;  she  whom  I  had  avoided  for 
years,  because  I,  of  all  men,  could  least 
afford  to  take  a  place  in  her  life!  I 
longed  to  see  those  eyes,  still  so  pure,  un 
der  her  bridal  veil. 

"  I  came  in  secret !  I  saw  her  - —  and 
all  prudence  fled  out  of  me,  leaving  but 
one  instinct. 

"  Was  it  my  fault  that,  alone,  she  fled 
from  the  house?  That,  with  her  veil 
thrown  over  her  arm,  she  ran  directly  by 
me,  like  a  sprite  in  the  moonlight,  to  this 
spot? 

'  The  rest  you  know. 

"  It  is  not  you  who  need  pity ! 
[   122  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

1  You  have  the  pain  of  an  imperishable 
loyalty  in  your  soul.  It  is  like  a  glory 
in  your  face,  in  spite  of  all  you  have  suf 
fered.  As  I  look  at  you,  it  seems  but  yes 
terday  that  all  was  well  between  us. 

;<  I  lost  much  in  losing  you. 

"  Nor  am  I  sure  that  you  were  right  to 
go  !  But  that  was  for  your  own  nature  to 
decide.  In  your  place  I  should  have 
fought  Fate,  I  expected  you  to  do  it. 

"  I  loved  her  first,  because  she  satisfied 
my  eyes.  I  loved  her  the  more  that  she 
was  denied  to  me !  Yet  I  knew  always 
that  this  love  was  not  in  me  what  it  was 
in  you.  With  me  it  was,  like  many  other 
emotions  of  a  similar  sort  —  a  sentiment 
that  would  pass.  I  tried  to  think  other 
wise.  But  I  had  awakened  her  heart,  and 
you,  to  whom  the  law  had  given  her,  were 
gone ! 

u  I  waited  long  for  your  return,  or  for 
some  sign. 

'  You  neither  came  nor  spoke. 

"  I  argued  that  something  must  be  done. 
I  owed  it  to  her  to  offer  her  my  protec 
tion. 

"  I  came  back  here.  I  met  her  on  this 
very  spot.  I  said  to  her,  '  You  are  alone 
in  the  world  —  your  mother  has  married 

[  123 1 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

—  she  has  other  children.  I  have  sad 
dened  your  life  with  my  love.  Let  me  at 
least  help  to  cheer  it  again.  You  need 
affection.  Here  it  is  —  in  my  arms!  ' 

"  And,  while  I  waited  for  her  answer,  I 
prayed  with  all  my  soul  that  she  might 
deny  me. 

"  God  bless  her!  She  did!  I  turned 
away  from  her  with  a  glad  heart,  and  in 
that  heart  I  enshrined  this  woman,  who, 
loving  me,  had  denied  me.  There  I  set 
up  her  image,  pure  and  inviolate.  Two 
long  years  I  stayed  away  from  her,  and  as 
I  worked,  I  worshipped  her,  and  out  of 
that  worship  I  wrought  a  great  thing. 

"  With  time,  however,  her  real  image 
grew  faint  within  me.  Other  emotions, 
other  experiences  seemed  to  blur  and  dim 
it.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  returned  here. 
Once  more  I  stood  on  this  spot,  within 
the  gaze  of  her  deep  eyes.  I  began  to  be 
lieve  that  a  love  everlasting,  all  enduring, 
had  been  given  me !  But  still  it  was  pas 
sion  that  pleaded  for  possession,  and  still  it 
was  self-knowledge  that  looked  on  in  fear. 

"Passion  bade  me  plead:  (  You  love 
me !  You  need  me !  Come  to  me !  ' 
And  fear  kept  my  heart  still,  in  dread  of 
her  consent. 

[  124  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

"  But  she  looked  up  into  my  face  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  widen  under  mine,  and 
simply  whispered,  *  My  mother.'  The 
heart  that  knew  and  understood  now  all 
that  sad  history  seemed  to  feel  that  her 
act  might  re-open  the  mother's  old  wound; 
that  the  verdict  '  like  mother,  like  daugh 
ter  '  would  turn  virtue  back  to  sin  again. 

"  Once  more  I  went  out  into  the  world 
with  a  light  heart!  Her  virtue,  her 
strength,  seemed  to  be  mine.  I  went  back 
to  my  work  with  renewed  spirit,  back  to 
my  life  with  no  new  self-reproach. 

"  But  once  more  I  swung  round  the  cir 
cle.  With  a  perversity  that,  dreading  suc 
cess,  and  conscious  of  fear,  yet  longs  to 
strive  for  what  it  dreads  to  win,  I  returned 
to  her  again.  The  death  of  her  mother 
was  my  new  excuse. 

"  She  came  to  me  —  here,  as  usual. 
But  this  time  she  came  leading  by  the  hand 
her  little  sister,  and  I  felt  her  armored 
against  me  even  before  I  spoke. 

'  You,  who  used  to  believe  in  a  merci 
ful  God,  can  you  explain  to  me  why  he  has 
left  in  the  nature  of  man,  created  —  so  you 
believe  —  in  His  own  image  —  that  im 
pulse  to  destroy  that  which  he  loves?  I 
loved  her  for  exactly  what  she  was.  I 

C 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

loved  her  because  she  had  the  courage  to 
resist  me.  Yet  from  each  denial  so  ar 
dently  desired,  so  thankfully  received,  my 
soul  sprang  up  strengthened  in  desire. 
Safe  above  me  I  worshipped  her.  Once 
in  my  arms,  I  knew,  only  too  well,  that 
even  that  love  would  pass  as  all  other  emo 
tions  had  done.  I  knew  I  should  put  her 
aside,  gently  if  I  could,  urgently,  if  I  must, 
and  pass  on.  That  is  my  Fate!  Every 
thing  that  enters  my  life  leaves  something 
I  need  —  and  departs !  For  what  I  have 
not,  I  hunger.  What  I  win  soon  wearies 
me.  It  is  the  price  life  exacts  for  what  it 
gives  me. 

"  So,  when  August  of  this  year  came 
round,  I  found  myself  once  more  standing 
here. 

'  Ten  years  had  passed  since  we  stood 
here  with  her'between  us  —  ten  years  that 
had  laid  their  richest  gifts  on  her  beauty. 
This  time  she  was  indeed  alone.  As  I 
looked  into  her  face,  I  somehow  thought 
of  Agamemnon's  fair  daughter  doomed  to 
die  a  virgin.  You  can  see  my  '  Iphigenia  ' 
in  the  spring,  if  you  chance  to  be  in  Paris. 

'*  This  time,  self-knowledge  deserted 
me.  The  past  was  forgotten.  The  fu 
ture  was  undreaded.  The  passion  in  my 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

heart  spoke  without  reserve  or  caution! 
I  no  longer  said :  '  You  need  me  !  You 
love  me  !  '  I  cried  out :  *  I  can  no  longer 
live  without  you !  '  I  no  longer  said, 
*  Come  to  me !  '  I  pleaded,  *  Take  me  to 
your  heart.  There,  where  my  image  is, 
let  me  rest  at  last.  I  have  waited  long, 
be  kind  to  me.' 

"  I  saw  her  sway  toward  me  as  once  be 
fore  she  had  done.  It  was  too  late  to 
look  backward  or  forward.  I  had  con 
quered.  In  my  weakness  I  believed  it  was 
thus  ordained  —  that  I  deserved  some 
credit  for  waiting  so  long. 

"  Yet,  when  she  left  me  here  alone,  hav 
ing  promised,  with  downcast  eyes  that 
avoided  mine,  to  place  her  hand  in  mine, 
and  walk  boldly  beside  me  down  the  for 
bidden  path  of  the  world,  I  fell  down  on 
the  spot  her  feet  had  pressed,  and  wept 
bitterly,  as  I  had  never  done  before  in  all 
my  life.  Wept  over  the  shattered  ideal, 
the  faith  I  had  so  wilfully  torn  down,  the 
miserable  victory  of  my  meanest  self. 

"  I  thought  the  end  was  come.  Fate 
was  merciful  to  me,  however! 

"  I  had  myself  fixed  the  following 
Thursday  as  the  day  for  our  departure. 
As  I  dated  a  letter  to  her  that  night  my 

[  127  3 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

mind  involuntarily  reckoned  the  days,  and 
I  was  startled  to  find  that  Thursday  fell  on 
that  fatal  tenth  of  August. 

"  I  had  not  thought  I  could  be  so  tor 
tured  in  my  mind  as  I  was  by  the  dread 
that  she  should  notice  the  dire  coinci 
dence. 

"  She  did! 

"  The  hour  that  should  have  brought 
her  to  me,  brought  a  note  instead.  It  was 
dated  boldly  '  August  tenth.'  It  was  with 
out  beginning  or  signature.  It  said  —  I 
can  repeat  every  word  — *  Of  the  two 
roads  to  self-destruction  open  to  me,  I 
have  chosen  the  one  that  will,  in  the  end, 
give  the  least  pain  to  you.  I  love  you.  I 
have  always  loved  you  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  do  not  regret  anything  yet!  Thank 
God  for  me  that  I  depart  without  ever 
having  seen  a  look  of  weariness  in  the  eyes 
that  gazed  so  lovingly  into  mine  when  we 
parted,  and  thank  Him  for  yourself  that 
you  will  never  see  a  look  of  reproach  in 
mine.  I  know  no  time  so  fitting  to  say  a 
long  farewell  for  both  of  us  as  this  — 
Farewell,  then.' 

"  I  knew  what  I  should  find  when  I  went 
up  the  hill. 

"  The  doctors  said  '  heart  disease.' 
[  128  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

She  had  been  troubled  with  some  such 
weakness.  I  alone  knew  the  truth !  As  I 
had  known  myself,  she  had  known  me ! 

"  You  think  you  suffer  —  you,  who 
might,  but  for  me,  have  made  her  happy, 
as  such  women  should  be,  in  a  world  of 
simple  natural  joys!  My  friend,  loss 
without  guilt  is  pain  —  but  it  is  not  with 
out  the  balm  of  virtuous  compensation. 
You  have  at  least  a  right  to  grieve. 

"  But  I !  I  am  forced  to  know  myself. 
To  feel  myself  borne  along  in  spite  of 
myself;  and  to  realize  that  she  who  should 
have  worn  a  crown  of  happy  womanhood, 
lies  there  a  sacrifice,  to  be  bewailed  like 
Jepthah's  one  fair  daughter;  and  to  sit 
here  in  full  dread  of  the  ebbing  of  even 
this  great  emotion,  knowing  too  well  that 
it  will  pass  out  of  my  life  when  it  shall  have 
achieved  its  purpose,  leaving  only  as  evi 
dence  this  —  another  great  work,  crystal- 
ized  into  immortality  in  everlasting  stone. 
I  know  that  I  cannot  long  hold  it  here  in 
my  heart.  The  day  will  come  —  perhaps 
soon  —  when  I  shall  stand  outside  that 
door,  and  recognize  this  as  my  work,  and 
be  proud  of  it,  without  the  power  to  grieve, 
as  I  do  now;  when  I  shall  approve  my  own 
handiwork,  and  be  unable  to  mourn  for 

[  129  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

her  who  was  sacrificed  to  achieve  it. 
What  is  your  pain  to  mine?  " 

And  I  saw  the  hot  tears  drop  from  his 
eyes.  I  saw  them  fall  on  the  marble  floor, 
and  they  watered  the  very  spot  where  his 
name  was  so  soon  to  spring  up  in  pride  to 
confess  his  handiwork. 

I  looked  on  her  calm  face.  I  knew  she 
did  not  regret  her  part  !  I  rose,  and,  with 
out  a  word,  I  passed  out  at  the  wide  door, 
and,  without  looking  back,  I  passed  down 
the  slope  in  the  dusk,  and  left  them  to 
gether  —  the  woman  I  had  loved,  and  the 
friend  I  had  lost  ! 

As  his  voice  died  away,  he  sat  upright 
quickly,  threw  a  glance  about  the  circle, 
and,  with  another  fine  gesture  said  :  "  Et 


The  Doctor  was  the  only  one  to  really 
laugh,  though  a  broad  grin  ran  round  the 
circle. 

"  Well,"  remarked  the  Doctor,  who  had 
been  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  indulging 
in  shrugs  and  an  occasional  groan,  which 
had  not  even  disconcerted  the  story  teller, 
"  I  suppose  that  is  how  that  very  great 
man,  your  governor,  did  the  trick.  I  can 
see  him  in  every  word." 

[  130  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

"  That  is  all  you  know  aboi't  it," 
laughed  the  Sculptor.  "  That  is  not  a  bit 
how  the  governor  did  it.  That  is  how  I 
should  have  done  it,  had  I  been  the  gov 
ernor,  and  had  the  old  man's  chances.  I 
call  that  an  ideal  thing  to  happen  to  a 


man." 


"  Not  even  founded  on  fact  —  which 
might  have  been  some  excuse  for  telling 
it,"  groaned  the  Critic.  "  I'd  love  to 
write  a  review  of  that  story.  I'd  polish 
it  off." 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  sneered  the 
Sculptor.  "  That's  all  a  critic  is  for  — 
to  polish  off  the  tales  he  can't  write.  I 
call  that  a  nice  romantic,  ideal  tale  for  a 
sculptor  to  conceive,  and  as  the  Doctor 
said  the  other  night,  it  is  a  possible  story, 
since  I  conceived  it,  and  what  the  mind  of 
mortal  can  conceive,  can  happen." 

'  The  trouble,"  said  the  Journalist, 
"  with  chaps  like  you,  and  the  Critic,  is 
that  your  people  are  all  framework. 
They're  not  a  bit  of  flesh  and  blood." 

"  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  the  Sculptor, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "  who 
has  a  right  to  decide  that?" 

"What  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  the 
Youngster,  "  is,  what  did  she  do  between 

3 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

times?     Of  course  he  sculped,  and  earned 
slathers  of  money.     But  she — ?" 

"  Oh,  ouch  —  help !  "  cried  the  Sculp 
tor.  "  Do  I  know?" 

"  Exactly!  "  answered  the  Critic,  "  and 
that  you  don't  sticks  out  in  every  line  of 
your  story." 

"  Goodness  me,  you  might  ask  the  same 
thing  about  Leda,  or  Helen  of  Troy." 

"Ha!  Ha!"  laughed  the  Doctor. 
"  But  we  know  what  they  did!  " 

"  A  lot  you  do.  It  is  because  they  are 
old  classics,  and  you  accept  them,  whereas 
my  story  is  quite  new  and  original  —  and 
you  were  unprepared  for  it,  and  so  you 
can't  appreciate  it.  Anyway,  it's  my  first 
born  story,  and  I'll  defend  it  with  my  life." 

Only  a  laugh  replied  to  the  challenge, 
and  the  attitude  of  defense  he  struck,  as  he 
leaped  to  his  feet,  though  the  Journalist 
said,  under  his  breath,  "  It  takes  a  carver 
in  stone  to  think  of  a  tale  like  that !  " 

"  But  think,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  how 
much  trouble  some  women  would  escape  if 
they  kept  on  saying  ABC  like  that  —  for 
the  A  B  C  is  usually  lovely  —  and  when 
it  was  time  to  X  Y  Z  —  often  terrible, 
they  just  slipped  out  through  the  *  open 
door.'  " 

[   132  ] 


THE  SCULPTOR'S  STORY 

"  On  the  other  hand,  they  risk  losing 
heaps  of  fun,"  said  the  Journalist. 

"  What  I  like  about  that  story,"  said  the 
Lawyer,  "  is  that  it  is  so  aristocratic. 
Every  one  seems  to  have  plenty  of  money. 
They  all  three  do  just  what  they  like,  have 
no  duties  but  to  analyze  themselves,  and 
evidently  everything  goes  like  clockwork. 
The  husband  enjoys  being  morbid,  and  has 
the  means  to  be  gloriously  so.  The  sculp 
tor  likes  to  carve  Edgar  Allan  Poe  all  over 
the  place,  and  the  fair  lady  is  able  to 
gratify  the  tastes  of  both  men." 

"  You  can  laugh  as  much  as  you  please," 
sighed  the  Sculptor,  "  I  wish  it  had  hap 
pened  to  me." 

"Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you  have 
the  privilege  of  going  to  bed  and  dreaming 
that  it  did." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  the  Sculptor. 
'  That  is  just  what  I  am  going  to  do." 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  last  night?  "  said 
the  Doctor,  under  his  breath,  as  he 
watched  the  Sculptor  going  slowly  toward 
the  house.  "  Bet  he  has  been  telling  that 
tale  to  himself  under  many  skies  for 
years!" 

"  I  suppose,"  laughed  the  Journalist, 
"  that  the  only  reason  he  has  never  built 

C  133  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

the  tomb  is  that  he  has  never  had  the 
money." 

"Oh,  be  fair!"  said  the  Violinist. 
"  He  has  not  built  the  tomb  because  he  is 
not  his  father.  The  old  man  would  have 
done  it  in  a  minute,  only  he  lacked  imagi 
nation.  You  bet  he  never  day-dreamed, 
and  yet  what  skill  he  had,  and  what  adven 
tures!  He  never  saw  anything  but  the 
facts  of  life,  yet  how  magnificently  he 
recorded  them." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  sighed  the  Violinist, 
"  that  the  son  did  not  seek  a  different 


career." 


4  What  difference  does  it  make  after 
all?  "  remarked  the  Doctor.  u  One  never 
knows  when  the  next  generation  will  step 
up  or  down,  and,  after  all,  what  does  it 
matter?" 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk," 
said  the  Critic. 

"  I  assure  you  that  the  great  pageant 
would  have  been  just  as  interesting  from 
any  other  point  of  view.  It  has  been  a 
great  spectacle, —  this  living.  I'm  glad 
I've  seen  it." 

"  Amen  to  that,"  said  the  Divorcee. 
"  I  only  hope  I  am  going  to  see  it  again 
—  even  though  it  hurts." 

[  134  ] 


VI 

THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

ONE  WOMAN'S  PHILOSOPHY 
THE  TALE  OF  A  MODERN  WIFE 

As  I  look  back,  I  remember  that  the 
next  night  was  one  of  the  most  trying  of 
the  week. 

As  we  came  down  to  dinner  we  all  had 
visions  of  the  destruction  of  Louvain,  and 
the  burning  of  the  famous  library.  It  is 
hard  enough  to  think  of  lives  going  out; 
still,  as  the  Doctor  was  so  fond  of  saying, 
"  man  is  born  to  die,  and  woman,  too," 
but  that  the  great  works  of  men,  his  be 
quest  to  the  coming  generations,  should  be 
wantonly  destroyed,  seemed  even  more 
horrible,  especially  to  those  who  love 
beauty,  and  the  idea  of  the  charred  leaves 
of  the  library  flying  in  the  air  above  the 
historic  city  of  catholic  culture,  made  us 
all  feel  as  if  we  were  sitting  down  to  a 
funeral  service  rather  than  a  very  good 
dinner. 

[  135  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

Matters  were  not  made  any  gayer  be 
cause  Angele,  who  was  waiting  on  table, 
had  rings  round  her  eyes,  which  told  of 
sleepless  nights.  And  why?  We  were 
mere  spectators.  We  had  been  interested 
to  dispute  and  look  on.  But  she  knew  that 
somewhere  out  there  in  the  northeast  her 
man  was  carrying  a  gun. 

Yet  all  about  us  the  country  was  so 
lovely  and  so  tranquil,  horses  were  walking 
the  fields,  and,  even  as  we  sat  at  dinner, 
we  could  hear  the  voices  and  the  heavy 
feet  of  the  peasant  women  as  they  went 
home  from  their  work.  The  garden  had 
never  been  more  beautiful  than  it  was  that 
evening,  with  the  silver  light  of  the  moon 
through  the  trees,  and  the  smell  of  the 
freshly  watered  earth  and  flowers. 

We  had  no  doubt  who  was  to  contribute 
the  story.  The  Divorcee  was  dressed  with 
unusual  care  for  the  role,  and  carried  a 
big  lace  bag  on  her  arm,  and,  as  she  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  she  pulled  one  of  the 
big  old  fashioned  candles  in  its  deep  glass 
toward  her,  and  said  with  a  nervous  laugh : 

"  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  let  me  read 
my  story.  You  know  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  this  sort  of  thing.  It  is  really  my  very 
4  first  appearance/  and  I  could  not  possibly 

[  136  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

tell  it  as  the  rest  of  you  more  experienced 
people  can  do,"  and  she  took  the  manu 
script  out  of  her  lace  hag,  and,  settling 
herself  gracefully,  unrolled  it.  The 
Youngster  put  a  stool  under  her  pretty 
feet,  and  the  Doctor  set  a  cushion  behind 
her  back,  while  the  Journalist,  with  a 
laugh,  poured  her  a  glass  of  water,  and 
the  Violinist  ceremoniously  leaned  over, 
and  asked,  "  Shall  I  turn  for  you?  " 

She  could  not  help  laughing,  but  it  did 
not  make  her  any  the  less  nervous,  or  her 
voice  any  the  less  shaky  as  she  began: 

It  was  after  dinner  on  one  of  those  rare 
occasions  when  they  dined  alone  together. 

They  were  taking  coffee  in  Mrs.  Shat- 
tuck's  especial  corner  of  the  drawing-room, 
and  she  had  just  asked  her  husband  to 
smoke. 

She  was  leaning  back  comfortably  in  a 
nest  of  cushions,  in  her  very  latest  gown, 
with  a  most  becoming  light  falling  on  her 
from  the  tall,  yellow-shaded  lamp. 

He  was  facing  her  —  astride  his  chair, 
in  a  position  man  has  loved  since  creation. 

He  was  just  thinking  that  his  wife  had 
never  looked  handsomer,  finer,  in  fact,  in 
all  her  life- — quite  the  satisfactory,  all- 

[  137  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

round,  desirable  sort  of  a  woman  a  man's 
wife  ought  to  be. 

She  was  wondering  if  he  would  ever  be 
any  less  attractive  to  all  women  than  he 
was  now  at  forty-two  —  or  any  better  able 
to  resist  his  own  power. 

As  she  put  her  coffee  cup  back  on  the 
tiny  table  at  her  elbow,  he  leaned  forward, 
and  picked  up  a  book  which  lay  open  on  a 
chair  near  him,  and  carelessly  glanced  at  it. 

u  Schopenhauer,"  and  he  wrinkled  his 
brows  and  glanced  half  whimsically  down 
the  page.  "I  never  can  get  used  to  a 
woman  reading  that  stuff  —  and  in  French, 
at  that.  If  you  took  it  up  to  perfect  your 
German  there  would  be  some  sense  in  it." 

Mrs.  Shattuck  did  not  reply.  When  a 
moment  later,  she  did  speak  it  was  to 
ignore  his  remark  utterly,  and  ask: 

"  The  Kaiser  Wilhelm  got  off  in  good 
season  this  morning  —  speaking  of  Ger 
man  things?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  was  the  indifferent  reply, 
"  at  ten  o'clock,  quite  promptly." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  comfortable,  and 
that  you  explained  why  I  could  not  come  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  One  of  your  beastly  head 
aches.  She  understood." 

"  Thank  you." 
[  138  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

Shattuck  yawned  lazily,  and  changed  the 
subject,  which  did  not  seem  to  interest 
him. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  still 
turning  the  leaves  of  the  book  he  held, 
"  that  this  pleases  you?  " 

"  Not  exactly." 

"Well,  amuses  you?  Instructs  you,  if 
you  like  that  better?  " 

"  No,  I  mean  to  say  simply  —  since  you 
insist  —  that  he  speaks  the  truth,  and  there 
are  some  —  even  among  women  —  who 
must  know  the  truth  and  abide  by  it." 

"  Well,  thank  Heaven,"  said  the  man, 
pulling  at  his  cigar,  "  that  most  women 
are  more  emotional  than  intelligent  —  as 
Nature  meant  them  to  be." 

Mrs.  Shattuck  examined  her  daintily 
polished  nails,  rubbed  them  carefully  on 
the  palm  of  her  hand,  as  women  have  a 
trick  of  doing,  and  then  polished  them  on 
her  lace  handkerchief,  before  she  said, 
"  Yes,  it  is  a  pity  that  we  are  not  all  like 
that, —  a  very  great  pity  —  for  our  own 
sakes.  Yet,  unluckily,  some  of  us  will 
think." 

"  But  the  thinking  woman  is  so  rarely 
logical,  so  unable  to  take  life  impersonally, 
that  Schopenhauer  does  her  no  good.  He 

[    139   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

only  fills  her  mind  with  errors,  mistrust, 
unhappiness." 

'  You  men  always  argue  that  way  with 
women  —  as  if  life  were  not  the  same  for 
us  as  for  you.  Pass  me  the  book.  I 
wager  that  I  can  open  it  at  random,  and 
that  you  cannot  deny  the  truth  of  the  first 
sentence  I  read." 

He  passed  her  the  book. 

She  took  it,  laid  it  open  carelessly  on 
her  knees,  bending  the  covers  far  back 
that  it  might  stay  open,  and  she  gave  her 
finger  tips  a  final  rub  with  her  handkerchief 
before  she  looked  at  the  page.  She 
paused  a  bit  after  she  glanced  at  it,  then 
picked  up  the  book  and  read:  "  '  L'homme 
est  par  Nature  porte  a  I'inconstance  dans 
V  amour,  la  femme  a  la  fide  lite.  U  amour 
de  I'homme  balsse  d'une  faqon  sensible  a 
partir  de  I* instant  ou  il  a  obtenu  satisfac 
tion:  il  semble  que  toute  autre  femme  ait 
plus  d'attrait  que  celle  qu'il  possede.' ' 

She  laid  the  book  down,  but  she  did  not 
look  at  him. 

u  Rubbish,"  was  his  remark. 

*  Yes,  I  know.  You  men  always  find 
it  so  easy  to  say  *  rubbish  '  to  all  natural 
truths  which  you  prefer  not  to  discuss." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Naomi,  it  seems  to  me 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

that  if  you  are  to  advocate  Schopenhauer, 
you  must  go  the  whole  length  with  him. 
The  fault  is  in  Nature,  and  you  must 
accept  it  as  inevitable,  and  not  kick  against 
it." 

"  I  don't  kick  against  Nature  —  as  you 
put  it  —  I  kick  against  civilization,  which 
makes  laws  regardless  of  Nature,  which 
deliberately  shuts  its  eyes  to  all  natural 
truths  in  regard  to  the  relations  of  men 
to  women, —  and  is  therefore  forced  to 
continually  wink  to  avoid  confessing  its 
folly." 

"  Civilization  seems  to  me  to  have  done 
the  best  it  could  with  a  very  difficult 
problem.  It  has  not  actually  allowed  dif 
ferent  codes  of  morals  to  men  and  women, 
and  it  may  have  had  to  wink  on  that 
account.  Right  there,  in  your  Schopen 
hauer,  you  have  a  primal  reason,  that  is, 
if  you  chose  to  follow  your  philosopher  to 
the  extent  of  actually  believing  that  Nature 
has  deliberately,  from  the  beginning,  pro 
tected  women  against  that  sin  of  which  so 
much  is  made,  and  to  which  she  has,  as 
deliberately,  for  economic  reasons  of  her 
own,  tempted  men." 

"  I  do  believe  it,  truly." 

1  You  are  no  more  charitable  toward 

c 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

my  sex  than  most  women  are.  Yet  neither 
your  teacher  nor  you  may  be  right.  A 
theoretic  arguer  like  Schopenhauer  makes 
good  enough  reading  for  calm  minds,  but 
he  is  bad  for  an  emotional  temperament, 
and,  by  Jove,  Naomi,  he  was  a  bad  ex 
ample  of  his  own  philosophy." 

u  My  dear  Dick,  I  am  afraid  I  read 
Schopenhauer  because  I  thought  what  he 
writes  long  before  I  ever  heard  of  him. 
I  read  him  because  did  I  not  find  a  clear 
logical  mind  going  the  same  way  my  mind 
will  go,  I  might  be  troubled  with  doubts, 
and  afraid  that  I  was  going  quite  wrong.'* 

"  Well,  the  deuce  and  all  with  a  woman 
when  she  begins  to  read  stuff  like  that  is 
her  inability  to  generalize.  You  women 
take  everything  home  to  yourselves.  You 
try  to  deduct  conclusions  from  your  own 
lives  which  men  like  Schopenhauer  have 
scanned  the  centuries  for.  The  natural 
course  of  your  life  could  hardly  have 
provided  you  with  the  pessimism  with 
which  —  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  re 
mark,  my  dear  —  you  have  treated  me 
several  times  in  the  past  few  months. 
Chamfort  and  Schopenhauer  did  that. 
But  these  are  not  subjects  a  man  discusses 
easily  with  his  wife." 

[  142  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

"  Indeed?  Then  that  is  surely  an  error 
of  civilization.  If  a  man  can  discuss  such 
matters  more  easily  with  a  woman  who  is 
not  his  wife,  it  is  because  there  is  no  frank 
ness  in  marriage.  Dick,  did  it  ever  occur 
to  you  that  a  man  and  woman,  strongly 
attracted  toward  one  another,  might  live 
together  many  years  without  understand 
ing  each  other?  " 

"  God  forbid!" 

"  How  easily  you  say  that !  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  most  women  think 
they  are  not  understood,  but  I  never 
reflected  on  the  matter." 

"  You  and  I  have  not  troubled  one 
another  much  with  our  doubts  and  per 
plexities." 

"  You  and  I  have  been  very  happy  to 
gether  —  I  hope."  There  was  a  little 
pause  before  the  last  two  words,  as  if  he 
had  expected  her  to  anticipate  them  with 
something,  and  there  was  a  half  interroga 
tive  note  in  his  voice.  She  made  no  re 
sponse,  so  he  went  on,  "  I've  surely  not 
been  a  hard  master  —  and  I  hope  I've  not 
been  selfish.  I  know  I've  not  been  unlov- 
ing." 

"  And  I  hope  you've  not  suffered  many 
discomforts  on  my  account.  I  think,  as 

[  143  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

women  go,  I  am  fairly  reasonable  —  or 
I  have  been." 

For  some  reason  Shattuck  seemed  to 
find  the  cigar  he  was  smoking  most  unsat 
isfactory.  Either  it  had  been  broken,  or 
he  had  unconsciously  chewed  the  end  —  a 
thing  which  he  detested  —  and  there  was 
a  pause  while  he  discarded  the  weed,  and 
selected  a  fresh  one.  He  appeared  to  be 
reflecting  as  he  lighted  it,  and  if  his  mind 
could  have  been  read,  it  would  have  prob 
ably  been  discovered  that  he  was  wonder 
ing  how  it  had  happened  that  the  conver 
sation  had  taken  this  turn,  and  mentally 
cursing  his  own  stupidity  in  making  any 
remarks  on  the  Schopenhauer.  He  was 
conscious  all  the  time  that  his  wife  was 
looking  rather  steadily  at  him,  and  he 
knew  that  at  least  a  conventional  reply  was 
expected  of  him. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "  I  look  back 
on  ten  very  satisfactory  years  of  married 
life.  You  have  been  a  model  wife,  a 
charming  companion  —  and  if  occasionally 
it  has  occurred  to  me  —  just  lately  —  that 
my  wife  has  developed  rather  singular,  to 
say  the  least,  unflattering  ideas  of  life,  why, 
you  have  such  a  brilliant  way  of  putting  it, 
that  I  am  more  than  half  proud  that  you've 
[  144  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

the  brains  to  hold  such  ideas,  though  they 
are  a  bit  disconcerting  to  me  as  a  husband. 
I  suppose  the  development  is  logical 
enough.  You  were  always,  even  as  a  girl, 
inclined  to  making  footnotes.  I  suppose 
their  present  daring  is  simply  the  result 
of  our  being  just  a  little  older  than  we 
used  to  be.  I  suppose  if  we  did  not  out 
grow  our  illusions,  the  road  to  death 
would  be  too  tragic." 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply. 
Then,  as  if  for  the  first  time  owning  to 
the  idea  which  had  long  been  uppermost 
in  her  mind,  she  said  suddenly:  "The 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  I  really  believe 
marriage  is  foolish.  I  do  believe  that  no 
man  ever  approached  it  without  regretting 
that  civilization  had  made  it  necessary,  and 
that  many  men  would  escape,  at  the  very 
last  moment,  if  women  did  not  so  rigidly 
hold  them  to  their  promises,  and  if,  be 
tween  two  ridiculous  positions,  marriage 
having  been  pushed  nearest,  had  not 
become  desperately  inevitable." 

"  How  absurd,  Naomi,  when  you  see 
the  whole  procession  of  men  walking, — 
according  to  their  dispositions  —  calmly 
or  eagerly  to  their  fate  every  day." 

u  Nevertheless,  I  think  the  pre-nuptial 

[  145  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

confessions  of  a  majority  of  men  of  our 
class,  would  prove  that  what  I  say  is  true." 

"  Are  you  hinting  that  it  was  true  in 
your  case?  " 

"  Perhaps." 

Shattuck  gave  an  amused  laugh.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  kept  me  to  the 
point?" 

"  Not  exactly.  At  that  time  I  had  an 
able  bodied  father  who  would  have  had 
to  be  dealt  with.  Besides,  a  man  does  not 
own  up  even  to  himself  —  not  always  — 
when  he  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  the 
inevitable.  I  am  not  speaking  of  what 
men  talk  about  in  such  cases,  or  of  what 
they  do,  but  of  what  they  feel, —  of  the 
fact  that,  in  too  many  instances,  Nature 
not  having  meant  men  for  bondage,  after 
they  have  passed  the  Rubicon  to  that  spot 
from  which  the  code  of  civilized  honor 
does  not  permit  them  to  turn  back,  they 
usually  have  a  period  of  regret,  and  are 
forced  to  make  a  real  effort  to  face  the 
Future, —  to  go  on,  in  fact." 

The  smile  had  died  out  of  Shattuck's 
face  and  he  said  quite  seriously:  u  As  far 
as  we  are  concerned,  Naomi,  I  have  very 
different  recollections  of  the  whole  affair." 

"  Have  you?     And  yet,  months  before 

[  H6  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

we  were  married,  I  knew  that  it  would  not 
have  broken  your  heart  if  the  wedding  had 
not  come  off  at  all." 

"  My  dear,  the  modern  heart  does  not 
break  easily  in  this  age.  We  are  schooled 
to  meet  the  accidents  of  life  with  some 
philosophy." 

"  And  yet  to  have  lost  you  then,  would 
have  killed  me." 

Shattuck  looked  at  her  sharply,  with, 
one  might  almost  have  said,  a  new  interest, 
but  she  was  no  longer  looking  at  him. 
She  went  on,  hurriedly:  u  You  loved  me, 
of  course.  I  was  of  your  world.  I  was 
a  woman  that  other  men  liked,  and  there 
fore  a  desirable  woman.  I  was  of  good 
family  —  altogether  your  social  equal,  in 
fact,  quite  the  sort  of  woman  it  became 
you  to  marry.  I  pleased  you  —  and  I 
loved  you." 

'  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  In 
ten  years,  I  doubt  if  you  have  ever  made  so 
frank  a  declaration  as  that  —  in  words." 
He  was  wondering,  if,  after  all,  she  were 
going  to  develop  into  an  emotional  woman, 
and  his  heart  gave  a  quick  leap  at  the  very 
thought  —  for  there  are  hours  when  a 
woman  who  runs  too  much  to  head  has  a 
man  at  a  cruel  disadvantage. 

c 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

1  Things  are  so  much  harder,  so  much 
more  complex  for  a  woman,"  she  went  on. 

"  For  the  protection  of  the  commun 
ity?" 

"  Perhaps.  Still,  it  is  not  always  pleas 
ant  to  be  a  woman, —  and  yet  think ;  a 
woman  whose  reason  has  been  mistakenly 
developed  at  the  expense  of  her  capacity 
to  enjoy  being  a  woman,  and  who  is  forced 
at  the  same  time  to  encounter  the  laws  of 
Nature,  and  pay  at  the  same  time,  the 
penalty  of  being  a  woman,  and  the  penalty 
of  knowledge.  For,  just  so  surely  as  we 
live,  we  must  encounter  love* — " 

'  You  might  take  it  out,"  interrupted 
the  husband,  "  in  feeling  flattered  that  it 
takes  so  much  to  conquer  such  as  you." 

"  So  we  might,  but  that,  once  conquered, 
neither  man  nor  Nature  has  any  further 
use  for  us,  and  regret,  like  art,  is  long. 
Not  even  you  can  deny,"  she  exclaimed, 
sitting  up  in  some  excitement,  and  letting 
her  cushions  fall  in  a  mess  all  about  her, 
"  that  life  is  very  unfair  to  women." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  that.  Physically  it 
is  a  little  rough  on  you,  but  there  are 
compensations." 

"  I  have  never  been   able  to  discover 
them.     Love  itself  is  hard  on  a  woman. 
[   148   ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

It  seems  to  stir  a  man's  faculties  heathily. 
They  seem  the  stronger  and  more  fit  for 
it.  It  does  not  seem  to  uproot  a  man's 
whole  being.  Does  it  serve  women  in  that 
way?" 

"  I  bear  witness  that  it  makes  some  of 
you  deucedly  handsome.  And  I  have 
heard  that  it  makes  some  of  you  —  good." 

"  Yes,  as  chastisement  does.  No,  Life 
seems  to  have  adjusted  matters  between 
men  and  women  very  badly,  very  unjustly." 

"  And  yet,  as  this  life  is  the  only  one 
we  know  we  must  adjust  ourselves  to  it  as 
we  find  it." 

"  No,  no.  We  had  better  have  accepted 
the  thing  as  Nature  gave  it  to  us.  We 
came  into  this  world  like  beasts  —  why 
aren't  we  content  to  live  like  beasts,  and 
make  no  pretenses?  Women  would  have 
nothing  to  expect  then,  and  there'd  be  no 
such  thing  as  broken  hearts.  In  spite  of 
all  the  polish  of  civilization,  man  is  simply 
bent  on  conquest.  Woman  is  only  one 
phase  of  the  chase  to  him  —  a  chase  in 
which  every  active  virile  man  is  occupied 
from  his  cradle  to  his  grave.  You  are 
the  conquerors.  We  are  simply  the 
conquered." 

Shattuck  tried  to  make  his  voice  light, 

[  149  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

as  he  said:  "  Not  always  unhappy  ones, 
I  fancy." 

"  I  suppose  all  men  flatter  themselves 
that  way,  and  argue  that  probably  the 
Sabine  women  preferred  their  fate  to  no 
fate  at  all." 

:*  Don't  be  bitter  on  so  old  and  imper 
sonal  a  topic,  Naomi.  It  is  the  law  of  life 
that  one  must  give,  and  one  must  take. 
That  the  emotions  differ  does  not  prove 
that  one  is  better  than  the  other." 

Shattuck  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the 
long  room,  not  quite  at  ease  with  him 
self. 

Mrs.  Shattuck  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
As  he  passed  her,  he  stopped,  picked  up 
her  cushions,  and  re-arranged  them  about 
her,  with  an  idle  caress  by  the  way,  a  kiss 
gently  dropped  on  the  inside  of  her  white 
wrist. 

She  followed  his  every  movement  with 
a  strange  speculative  look  in  her  eyes,  al 
most  as  if  he  were  some  new  and  strange 
animal  that  she  was  studying  for  the  first 
time. 

When  she  spoke  again,  it  was  to  go  on 
as  if  she  had  not  been  interrupted,  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  man  comes  out  of  a  great 
passion  just  as  good  as  new,  while  a 

[  150  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

woman  is  shattered  —  in  a  moral  sense  — 
and  never  fully  recovers  herself." 

Shattuck's  back  was  toward  her  when  he 
replied.  "  Sorry  to  spoil  any  more  illu 
sions,  dear  child,  but  how  about  the  long 
list  of  men  who  are  annually  ruined  by  it? 
The  men  in  the  prisons,  the  men  who  kill 
themselves,  the  men  who  hang  for  it?  " 

"  Those  are  crimes.  I  am  not  talking 
of  the  criminal  classes,  but  of  the  world  in 
which  normal  people  live." 

"  Our  set,"  he  laughed,  "  but  that  is  not 
the  whole  world,  alas !  " 

"  I  know  that  men  —  well  bred,  culti 
vated,  refined,  even  honorable  men, —  seem 
to  be  able  to  repeat  every  emotion  of  life. 
A  woman  scales  the  heights  but  once. 
Hence  it  must  depend,  in  the  case  of 
women  capable  of  deep  love  —  on  the  men 
whether  the  relation  into  which  marriage 
betrays  them  be  decent  or  indecent.  What 
I  should  like  to  be  able  to  discover  is  — 
what  provision  does  either  man  or  civiliza 
tion  propose  to  make  for  the  woman  whom 
Fate,  in  wanton  irony,  reduces,  even  in 
marriage,  to  the  self-considered  level  of 
the  girl  in  the  street?" 

There  was  amazement  —  even  a  fore 
boding —  on  Shattuck's  face  as  he  paused 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

in  his  walk,  and,  for  the  first  time  speaking 
anxiously  ejaculated,  "  I  swear  I  don't  fol 
low  you !  " 

She  went  on  as  if  she  had  not  been  inter 
rupted,  as  if  she  had  something  to  say 
which  had  to  be  said,  as  if  she  were  reason 
ing  it  out  for  herself:  "  Take  my  case. 
I  don't  claim  that  it  is  uncommon.  I  do 
claim  that  I  was  not  the  woman  for  the 
situation.  I  was  an  only  child.  My 
father's  marriage  had  not  been  happy.  I 
was  brought  up  by  a  disappointed  man  on 
philosophy  and  pessimism." 

"  Old  sceptics,  and  modern  scoffers.  I 
remember  it  well." 

14  Before  I  was  out  of  my  teens,  I  had 
imbibed  a  mistrust  for  all  emotions.  Per 
haps  you  did  not  know  that?  You  may 
have  thought,  because  they  were  not  all  on 
the  outside,  that  I  had  none.  My  poor 
father  had  hoped,  with  his  teachings,  to 
save  me  from  future  misery.  He  had 
probably  thought  to  spare  me  the  com 
monplace  sorrows  of  love.  But  he  could 
not." 

u  There  is  one  thing,  my  child,  that  the 
passing  generation  cannot  do  for  its  heirs 
—  live  for  them  —  luckily.  Why,  you 
might  as  well  forbid  a  rose  to  blossom  by 

c  152  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

word  of  mouth,  as  try  to  thwart  nature 
in  a  beautiful  healthy  woman." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  to  bring  up  a 
woman  as  I  was  brought  up  only  prepares 
her  to  take  the  distemper  the  quicker." 

"  I  do  not  remember  that  of  you.  But 
I  do  know  that  no  woman  was  ever  wooed 
as  hotly  as  you  were  —  or  ever  —  I  swear 
it  —  more  ardently  desired.  No  woman 
ever  led  a  man  the  chase  you  led  me.  If 
ever  in  those  days  you  were  as  anxious  for 
my  love  as  you  have  said  you  were  this 
evening,  no  one  would  have  guessed  it, 
least  of  all  I." 

"  My  reason  had  already  taught  me  that 
mine  was  but  the  common  fate  of  all 
women :  that  life  was  demanding  of  me  the 
usual  tribute  to  posterity:  that  the  sweet 
ness  of  the  emotion  was  Nature's  trick  to 
make  it  endurable.  But  according  to 
Nature's  eternal  plan,  my  heart  could  not 
listen  to  my  head  —  it  beat  so  loud  when 
you  were  by,  it  could  not  hear,  perhaps. 
But  there  was  something  of  my  father's 
philosophy  left  in  me,  and  when  I  was 
alone  it  would  speak,  and  be  heard,  too. 
Even  when  I  believed  in  you  —  because  I 
wanted  to  —  and  half  hoped  that  all  my 
teaching  was  wrong,  I  made  a  bargain  with 

C  153  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

myself.  I  told  myself,  quite  calmly,  that 
I  knew  perfectly  well  all  the  possibilities  of 
the  future.  That  if  I  went  forward  with 
you,  I  went  forward  deliberately  with  open 
eyes,  knowing  what,  logically,  I  might 
expect  to  find  in  the  future.  Ignorance  — 
that  blissful  comfort  of  so  many  women, — 
was  denied  me.  Still,  the  spell  of  Nature 
was  upon  me,  and  for  a  time  I  dreamed 
that  a  depth  of  passionate  love  like  mine, 
a  life  of  loyal  devotion  might  wrap  one 
man  round,  and  keep  him  safe  —  might  in 
fact,  work  a  miracle  —  and  make  one  po 
lygamous  man  monogamous.  But,  even 
while  that  hope  was  in  my  heart,  reason 
rose  up  and  mocked  it,  bidding  me  advance 
into  the  Future  at  my  peril.  I  did  it,  but 
I  made  a  bargain  with  myself,  I  agreed 
to  abide  the  consequences  —  and  to  abide 
them  calmly." 

"  And  during  all  those  days  when  I  sup 
posed  we  were  so  near  together  —  you 
showed  me  nothing  of  this  that  was  in  your 
heart.'7 

"  Men  and  women  know  very  rarely 
anything  of  the  great  struggles  that  go  on 
in  the  hearts  of  one  another.  Besides,  I 
knew  how  easily  you  would  reply  — 
naturally.  We  are  all  on  the  defensive  in 

[  154 1 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

this  life.  It  was  with  things  deeper  than 
words  that  I  was  dealing  —  the  things  one 
does  —  not  says.  Even  in  the  early  days 
of  our  engagement  I  knew  that  I  was  not 
as  essential  to  you  as  you  were  to  me. 
Life  held  other  interests  for  you.  Even 
the  flattery  of  other  women  still  had  its 
charm  for  you.  Young  as  I  was,  I  said 
to  myself :  '  If  you  marry  this  man  —  with 
your  eyes  open  —  blame  yourself,  not  him, 
if  you  suffer.'  I  do  believe  that  I  have 
been  able  to  do  that." 

Shattuck  was  astride  his  chair  again,  his 
elbows  on  the  back,  his  chin  in  his  hands. 
He  no  longer  responded.  Words  were 
dangerous.  His  lips  were  pressed  close 
together,  and  there  was  a  long  deep  line 
between  his  eyes. 

"  My  love  for  you  absorbed  every  other 
emotion  of  my  life.  But  I  seemed  to  lack 
some  of  the  qualities  that  aid  to  reconcile 
other  wives  to  life.  I  seemed  to  be  with 
out  mother-love.  My  children  were  dear 
to  me  only  because  they  were  yours.  The 
maternal  passion,  which  in  so  many  women 
is  the  absorbing  emotion  of  life,  was 
denied  me.  My  children  were  to  me 
merely  the  tribute  to  posterity  which  Life 
had  demanded  of  me  as  the  penalty  of 

c  155  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

your  love  —  nothing  more.  I  must  be 
singularly  unfitted  for  marriage,  because, 
when  the  hour  came  in  which  I  felt  that  I 
was  no  longer  your  wife,  your  children 
seemed  no  longer  mine.  They  merely  rep 
resented  the  next  generation  —  born  of 
me.  I  know  that  this  is  very  shocking.  I 
have  become  used  to  it, —  and,  it  is  the 
truth.  I  have  not  blamed  you,  I  could  not 
—  and  be  reasonable.  No  man  can  be 
other  than  Nature  plans  or  permits,  but 
how  I  have  pitied  myself!  I  have  been 
through  the  tempest  alone.  In  spite  of 
reason, —  in  spite  of  philosophy  —  I  have 
suffered  from  jealousy,  from  shame,  from 
rage,  from  self  contempt.  But  that  is  all 
past  now." 

She  had  not  raised  her  voice,  which 
seemed  as  without  feeling  as  it  was  without 
emphasis.  She  carefully  examined  her 
handkerchief  corner  by  corner,  and  he 
noticed  for  the  first  time  how  thin  her 
hands  had  become. 

u  Naturally,"  she  went  on  in  that  color 
less  voice,  "  my  first  impulse  was  to  be 
done  with  life.  But  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  that,  much  as  I  desired  it.  It 
would  have  left  you  such  a  wretched  mem 
ory  of  me.  You  could  never  have  par- 

[  156  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

doned  me  the  scandal  —  and  I  felt  that  I 
had  at  least  the  right  to  leave  you  a  decent 
recollection  of  me." 

Shattuck's  head  fell  forward  on  his 
arms. —  The  idea  of  denial  or  protest  did 
not  occur  to  him. 

The  steady  voice  went  monotonously  on. 
"  I  could  not  bear  to  humble  you  in  the 
eyes  of  others  even  by  forcing  you  to  face 
a  scandal.  I  could  not  bear  to  humble 
you  in  your  own  eyes  by  letting  you  suspect 
that  I  knew  the  truth.  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  disturb  the  outward  respect 
ability  of  your  life  by  interrupting  its  out 
ward  calm.  To  be  absolutely  honest  — 
though  I  had  lost  you,  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  give  you  up, —  as  I  felt  I  must, 
if  I  let  any  one  discover  —  most  of  all  you 
—  what  I  knew.  So,  like  a  coward,  I  lived 
on,  becoming  gradually  accustomed  to  the 
idea  that  my  day  was  past,  but  knowing 
that  the  moment  I  was  forced  to  speak,  I 
would  be  forced  to  move  on  out  of  your 
life.  Singularly  enough,  as  I  grew  calm, 
I  grew  to  respect  this  other  woman.  I 
could  not  blame  her  for  loving  you.  I 
ended  by  admiring  her.  I  had  known  her 
so  well  —  she  was  such  a  proud  woman ! 
I  looked  back  at  my  marriage  and  saw  the 

c  is?  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

affair  as  it  really  was.  I  had  not  sold  my 
self  to  you  exactly  —  I  had  loved  you  too 
much  to  bargain  in  that  way;  nevertheless, 
the  marriage  had  been  a  bargain.  In 
exchange  for  your  promise  to  protect  and 
provide  for  me, —  to  feed  me,  clothe  me, 
share  your  fortune  with  me,  and  give  me 
your  name,  I  had  given  you  myself, — 
openly  sanctioned  by  the  law,  of  course  — 
I  was  too  great  a  coward  to  have  done  it 
otherwise,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
law  gives  that  same  permission  to  almost 
any  one  who  asks  for  it." 

"  Naomi,"  he  groaned  from  his  covered 
mouth,  "  what  ghastly  philosophy." 

"  Isn't  that  the  marriage  law?  How 
much  better  am  I  after  all  than  the  poor 
girl  in  the  street,  who  is  forced  to  it  by 
misery?  To  be  sure,  I  believe  there  is 
some  farcical  phrase  in  the  bargain  about 
promising  to  love  none  other, —  a  bare 
faced  attempt  to  outwit  Nature, —  at  which 
Nature  laughs.  Yet  this  other  woman, 
proud,  high-minded,  unselfish,  hitherto 
above  reproach,  had  given  herself  for  love 
alone  —  with  everything  to  lose  and  noth 
ing  to  gain.  I  have  come  to  doubt  myself. 
I  have  had  my  day.  For  years  it  was  an 
enviable  one.  No  woman  can  hope  for 

[  158  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

more.  What  right  have  I  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  another  woman's  happiness?  A 
happiness  no  one  can  value  better  than  I, 
who  so  long  wore  it  in  security.  I  bore 
my  children  in  peace,  with  the  divine  con 
solation  of  your  devotion  about  me. 
What  right  have  I  to  deny  another  woman 
the  same  joy?  " 

Shattuck  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  It's  not  true !  "  he  gasped.  "  It's  not 
true!" 

The  woman  never  even  raised  her  eyes. 
She  went  on  carefully  inspecting  the  filmy 
bit  of  lace  in  her  hands. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  replied.  "  Never 
mind  how  I  discovered  it.  I  know  it. 
That  is  why  she  has  gone  abroad  alone. 
I  did  not  speak  until  I  had  to.  I  am  a 
coward,  but  not  enough  of  one  to  bear  the 
thought  of  her  alone  in  a  foreign  country 
with  mind  and  emotions  clouded.  I  may 
be  cowardly  enough  to  wish  that  I  had 
never  found  it  out, —  I  am  not  coward 
enough  to  keep  silent  any  longer." 

A  torrent  of  words  rushed  to  the  man's 
lips,  but  he  was  too  wise  to  make  excuses. 
Yet  there  were  excuses.  Any  fair-minded 
judge  would  have  said  so.  But  he  knew 
better  than  to  think  that  for  one  moment 

[  159  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

they  would  be  excuses  in  the  mind  of  this 
woman.  Besides,  the  first  man's  excuse 
for  the  first  sin  has  never  been  viewed  with 
much  respect  under  the  modern  civiliza 
tion. 

He  felt  her  slowly  rise  to  her  feet,  and 
when  he  raised  his  head  to  look  at  her  — 
not  yet  fully  realizing  what  had  happened 
to  him  —  all  emotion  seemed  to  have  be 
come  so  foreign  to  her  face,  that  he  felt 
as  if  she  were  already  a  stranger  to  him. 

She  took  a  last  look  round  the  room. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  devour  every  detail. 

"  I  shall  find  means  to  give  you  your 
freedom  at  once." 

"  You  will  actually  leave  me  —  go 
away?  " 

"  Can  we  two  remain  together  now?  " 

"  But  your  children?" 

11  Your  children,  Dick  —  I  have  for 
gotten  that  I  have  any.  I  have  had  my 
life.  You  have  still  yours  to  live." 

She  swept  by  him  down  the  long  room, 
everything  in  which  was  so  closely  associ 
ated  with  her.  Before  she  reached  the 
door,  he  was  there  —  and  his  back  against 
it.  She  stopped,  but  she  did  not  look  at 
him.  If  she  could  have  read  the  truth  in 
his  face,  it  would  have  told  her  that  she 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

had  never  been  loved  as  she  was  at  that 
moment.  All  that  she  had  been  in  her 
loyalty,  her  nobility,  was  so  much  a  part  of 
this  man's  life.  What,  compared  to  that, 
were  petty  sins,  or  big  ones?  He  saw  the 
past  as  a  drowning  man  sees  the  panorama 
of  his  existence.  Yet  he  knew  that  every 
thing  he  could  say  would  be  powerless  to 
move  her. 

It  was  useless  to  remind  her  of  their 
happy  years  together.  They  could  never 
be  happy  again  with  this  between  them. 
It  would  be  equally  useless  to  tell  her  that 
this  other  woman  had  known,  but  too  well, 
that  he  would  never  desert  his  wife  for  her. 
Had  he  not  betrayed  her? 

Of  what  use  to  tell  her  how  he  had 
repented  his  folly,  that  he  could  never 
understand  it  himself?  There  were  the 
facts,  and  Nature,  and  his  wife's  phi 
losophy  against  him. 

And  he  had  dared  be  gay  the  moment 
the  steamer  slid  into  the  channel!  Was 
that  only  this  morning?  It  seemed  to  be 
in  the  last  century. 

She  approached,  and  stretched  her  hand 
toward  the  door. 

He  did  not  move. 

"  Don't  stop  me,"  she  pleaded. 

[  161  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

"  Don't  make  it  any  harder  than  it  is. 
Let  me  take  with  me  the  consolation  of  a 
decent  life  together  —  a  decent  life  de 
cently  severed." 

He  made  one  last  appeal  —  he  opened 
his  arms  wide  to  her. 

She  shrank  back  with  a  shudder,  crying 
out  that  he  should  spare  her  her  own  con 
tempt —  that  he  should  leave  her  the 
power  to  seek  peace  —  and  her  voice  had 
such  a  tone  of  terror,  as  she  recoiled  from 
him,  that  he  felt  how  powerless  any  protest 
would  be. 

He  stepped  aside. 

Without  looking  at  him  she  quickly 
opened  the  door  and  passed  out. 

The  Divorcee  nervously  rolled  up  her 
manuscript. 

The  usual  laugh  was  not  forthcoming. 
No  one  dared.  Men  can't  rough-house 
that  kind  of  a  woman. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  Critic 
spoke  up.  "  You  were  right  to  read  that 
story.  It  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  that 
lends  itself  to  narrating.  Of  course  you 
might  have  acted  it  out,  but  you  were  wise 
not  to." 

"  I  can't  help  it  —  got  to  say  it,"  said 

[  162  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

the  Journalist :  "  What  a  horrid  woman !  " 

The  Divorcee  looked  at  him  in  amaze 
ment.  "  How  can  you  say  that?  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  I  thought  I  had  made  her 
so  reasonable.  Just  what  all  women  ought 
to  be,  and  what  none  of  us  are." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  said  the  Jour 
nalist.  "  I'd  as  lief  live  in  a  world  created 
and  run  by  George  Bernard  Shaw  as  in 
one  where  women  were  like  that." 

"  Come,  come,"  interrupted  the  Doctor, 
who  had  been  eyeing  her  profile  with  a 
curious  half  amused  expression,  all  through 
the  reading:  "  Don't  let  us  get  on  that 
subject  to-night.  A  story  is  a  story.  You 
have  asked,  and  you  have  received.  None 
of  you  seem  to  really  like  any  story  but 
your  own,  and  I  must  confess  that  among 
us,  we  are  putting  forth  a  strange  bag 
gage." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  the  Critic,  "  I 
think  we  are  doing  pretty  well  for  a  crowd 
of  amateurs." 

'  You  are  not  an  amateur,"  laughed  the 
Journalist,  "  and  yours  was  the  worst  yet." 

"I  deny  it,"  said  the  Critic.  "  Mine 
had  real  literary  quality,  and  a  very  dra 
matic  climax." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  death  is  dramatic  —  per- 

c 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

haps.  You  are  the  only  one  up  to  date 
who  has  killed  his  heroine." 

"  No  story  is  finished  until  the  heroine 
is  dead,"  said  the  Journalist.  "  This  wo 
man, —  I'll  bet  she  had  another  romance." 

"Did  she?"  asked  the  Critic  of  the 
Divorcee,  who  was  still  nervously  rolling 
her  manuscript  in  both  hands. 

"  I  don't  know.  How  should  I?  And 
if  I  did  I  shouldn't  tell  you.  It  isn't  a 
true  story,  of  course."  And  she  rose 
from  her  chair  and  walked  away  into  the 
moonlight. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  ejaculated  the 
Violinist,  who  admired  her  tremendously, 
"  that  she  made  that  up  in  the  imagination 
she  carries  around  under  that  pretty  fluffy 
hair?  I'd  rather  that  it  were  true  —  that 
she  had  picked  it  up  somewhere." 

As  we  began  to  prepare  to  go  in,  the 
Doctor  looked  down  the  path  to  where  the 
Divorcee  was  still  standing.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation  he  took  her  lace  scarf 
from  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  strolled 
after  her.  The  Sculptor  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  such  a  droll  expression  that 
we  all  had  to  smile.  Then  we  went  in 
doors. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  joined 
[  164  ] 


THE  DIVORCEE'S  STORY 

her  —  she  told  me  about  it  afterwards  — 
"  was  that  the  way  it  happened?  " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  Divorcee,  petu 
lantly.  "  That  is  not  a  bit  the  way  it 
happened.  That  is  the  way  I  wish  it  had 
happened.  Oh,  no.  I  was  brought  up  to 
believe  in  the  proprietary  rights  in  mar 
riage,  and  I  did  what  I  thought  became  a 
womanly  woman.  I  asserted  my  rights, 
and  made  a  common  or  garden  row." 

The  Doctor  laughed,  as  she  stamped 
her  foot  at  him. 

"  Pardon  —  pardon,"  said  he.  "  I  was 
only  going  to  say  '  Thank  God.'  You 
know  I  like  it  best  that  way." 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  told  the  old  story," 
she  said  pettishly.  "  It  serves  me  quite 
right.  Now  I  suppose  they've  got  all 
sorts  of  queer  notions  in  their  heads." 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  Doctor.  "All 
authors,  you  know,  run  the  risk  of  getting 
mixed  up  in  their  romances  —  think  of 
Charlotte  Bronte." 

"  I'm  not  an  author,  and  I  am  going  to 
bed, —  to  repent  of  my  folly,"  and  she 
sailed  into  the  house,  leaving  the  Doctor 
gazing  quizzically  after  her.  Before  she 
was  out  of  hearing,  he  called  to  her:  "  I 
say,  you  haven't  changed  a  bit  since  '92." 

She  heard  but  she  did  not  answer. 

[  165  ] 


VII 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  WEDDING 
THE  TALE  OF  A  BRIDE-ELECT 

THE  next  day  we  all  hung  about  the 
garden,  except  the  Youngster,  who  disap 
peared  on  his  wheel  early  in  the  day,  and 
only  came  back,  hot  and  dusty,  at  tea-time. 
He  waved  a  hand  at  us  as  he  ran  through 
the  garden  crying:  "  I'll  change,  and  be 
with  you  in  a  moment,"  and  leapt  up  the 
outside  staircase  that  led  to  the  gallery  on 
which  his  room  opened,  and  disappeared. 

I  found  an  opportunity  to  go  up  the 
other  staircase  a  little  later  —  the  Young 
ster  was  an  old  pet  of  mine,  and  off  and 
on,  I  had  mothered  him.  I  tapped  at  the 
door. 

"  Can't  come  in!  "  he  cried. 

"Where've  you  been?" 

"  Wait  there  a  minute  —  and  mum  — . 
I'll  tell  you." 

So  I  went  and  sat  in  the  window  looking 
[  166  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

down  the  road,  until  he  came,  spick  and 
span  in  white  flannels,  with  his  head  not 
yet  dried  from  the  douching  he  had  taken. 

"  See  here,"  he  whispered,  "  I  know  you 
can  keep  a  secret.  Well,  I've  been  out 
toward  Cambrai  —  only  sixty  miles  —  and 
I  am  tuckered.  There  was  a  battle  there 
last  night  —  English  driven  back.  They 
are  only  two  days'  march  away,  and  oh ! 
the  sight  on  the  roads.  Don't  let's  talk 
of  it." 

In  spite  of  myself,  I  expect  I  went  white, 
for  he  exclaimed:  "  Darn  it,  I  suppose  I 
ought  not  to  have  told  you.  But  I  had  to 
let  off  to  some  one.  I  don't  want  to  tell 
the  Doctor.  In  fact,  he  forbade  my  going 
again." 

"  Is  it  a  real  German  victory?  "  I  asked. 

"  If  it  isn't  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call 
it,  though  such  of  the  English  as  I  saw 
were  in  gay  enough  spirits,  and  there  was 
not  an  atmosphere  of  defeat.  Fact  is  — 
I  kept  out  of  sight  and  only  got  stray 
impressions.  Go  on  down  now,  or  they'll 
guess  something.  I'm  not  going  to  say  a 
word  —  yet.  Awful  sorry  now  I  told 
you.  Force  of  habit." 

I  went  down.  I  had  hard  work  for  a 
few  minutes  to  throw  the  impression  off. 

[  167  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

But  the  garden  was  lovely,  and  tea  being 
over,  we  all  busied  ourselves  in  rifling  the 
flowerbeds  to  dress  the  dinner  table.  If 
we  were  going  in  two  days,  where  was  the 
good  of  leaving  the  flowers  to  die  alone? 
I  don't  suppose  that  it  was  strange  that  the 
table  conversation  was  all  reminiscent. 
We  talked  of  the  old  days :  of  ourselves 
when  we  were  boys  and  girls  together:  of 
old  Papanti,  and  our  first  Cotillion,  of 
Class  Days,  and,  I  remembered  afterward, 
that  not  one  of  us  talked  of  ourselves 
except  in  the  days  of  our  youth. 

When  the  coffee  came  out,  we  looked 
about  laughing  to  see  which  of  the  three 
of  us  left  was  to  tell  the  story.  The  Law 
yer  coughed,  tapped  himself  on  his  chest, 
and  crossed  his  long  legs. 

It  was  a  cold  December  afternoon. 

The  air  was  piercing. 

There  had  been  a  slight  fall  of  snow, 
then  a  sudden  drop  in  the  thermometer 
preceded  nightfall. 

Miss  Moreland,  wrapped  in  her  furs, 
was  standing  on  a  street  corner,  looking  in 
vain  for  a  cab,  and  wondering,  after  all, 
why  she  had  ventured  out. 

It  was  somewhat  later  than  she  had 
[  168  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

supposed,  and  she  was  just  conventional 
enough,  in  spite  of  her  pose  to  the  exact 
contrary,  to  hope  that  none  of  her  friends 
would  pass.  She  knew  her  set  well  enough 
to  know  that  it  would  cause  something 
almost  like  a  scandal  if  she  were  seen  out 
alone,  on  foot,  on  the  very  eve  of  her 
wedding  day,  when  all  well  bred  brides 
ought  to  be  invisible  —  repenting  their 
sins,  and  praying  for  blessings  on  the  future 
in  theory,  but  in  reality,  fussing  themselves 
ill  over  belated  finery. 

She  had  had  for  some  years  a  number 
of  poor  protegees  in  the  lower  end  of  the 
city,  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  visit 
on  work  of  a  charitable  nature  begun  when 
she  was  a  school  girl.  She  had  found 
work  enough  to  do  there  ever  since. 

It  was  work  of  which  her  father,  a  hard 
headed  man  of  business,  strongly  disap 
proved,  although  he  was  ready  enough  to 
give  his  money.  Jack  was  of  her  father's 
mind.  She  realized  that  when  she  re 
turned  from  the  three  years'  trip  round  the 
world,  on  which  she  was  starting  the  day 
after  her  wedding,  she  would  have  other 
duties,  and  she  knew  it  would  be  harder  to 
oppose  Jack, —  and  more  dangerous  — 
than  it  had  been  to  oppose  her  father. 

[  169  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

In  this  realization  there  was  a  touch  of 
self-reproach.  She  knew,  in  her  own 
heart,  that  she  would  be  glad  to  do  no 
more  work  of  that  sort.  Experience  had 
made  her  hopeless,  and  she  had  none  of 
the  spiritual  support  that  made  women  like 
St.  Catherine  of  Sienna.  But,  if  experi 
ence  had  robbed  her  of  her  illusions,  she 
knew,  too,  that  it  had  set  a  seal  of  pain 
on  all  the  future  for  her.  She  could  never 
forget  the  misery  she  had  seen.  So  it  had 
been  a  little  in  a  desire  to  give  one  more 
sop  to  her  conscience,  that  she  had  dedi 
cated  her  last  afternoon  to  freedom  to  her 
friends  in  the  very  worst  part  of  the 
town. 

If  her  mother  had  remained  at  home, 
she  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  go. 
All  the  more  reason  for  returning  in  good 
season,  and  here  it  was  dark!  Worse 
still,  the  trip  had  been  in  every  way  unsuc 
cessful.  She  had  turned  her  face  home 
ward,  simply  asking  herself,  as  she  had 
done  so  many  times  before,  if  it  were 
"  worth  while,"  and  answered  the  question 
once  more  with:  "Neither  to  me  nor  to 
them."  She  had  already  learned,  though 
too  young  for  the  lesson,  that  each  indi 
vidual  works  out  his  own  salvation, —  that 

[  170  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

neither  moral  nor  physical  growth  ever 
works  from  the  surface  inward.  Oppor 
tunity  —  she  could  perhaps  give  that  in  the 
future,  but  she  was  convinced  that  those 
who  may  give  of  themselves,  and  really 
help  in  the  giving,  are  elected  to  the  task 
by  something  more  than  the  mere  desire  to 
serve.  In  her  case  the  gift  of  her  youth 
and  her  illusions  had  done  others  no  real 
good,  and  had  more  or  less  saddened  her 
life  forever.  If  she  were  to  really  go  on 
with  the  work,  it  would  only  be  by  giving 
up  the  world  —  her  world, —  abandoning 
her  life,  with  its  luxury,  its  love,  everything 
she  had  been  bred  to,  and  longed  for. 
She  did  not  feel  a  call  to  do  that,  so  she 
chose  the  existence  to  which  she  had  been 
born;  the  love  of  a  man  in  her  own  set, — 
but  the  shadow  of  too  much  knowledge  sat 
on  her  like  a  shadow  of  fear. 

She  was  impatient  with  herself,  the 
world,  living, —  and  there  was  no  cab  in 
sight. 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  Half  past 
four. 

It  was  foolish  not  to  have  driven  over, 
but  she  had  felt  it  absurd,  always,  to  go 
about  this  kind  of  work  in  a  private  car 
riage,  and  to-day  she  could  not,  as  she 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

usually  did,  take  a  street  car  for  fear  of 
meeting  friends.  They  thought  her  queer 
enough  as  it  was. 

An  impatient  ejaculation  escaped  her, 
and  like  an  echo  of  it  she  heard  a  child's 
voice  beside  her. 

She  looked  down. 

It  was  a  poor  miserable  specimen.  At 
first  she  was  not  quite  sure  whether  it  were 
boy  or  girl. 

Whimpering  and  mopping  its  nose  with 
a  very  dirty  hand,  the  child  begged  money 
for  a  sick  mother  —  a  dying  mother  — 
and  begged  as  if  not  accustomed  to  it  — 
all  the  time  with  an  eye  for  that  dread  of 
New  England  beggars,  the  man  in  the  blue 
coat  and  brass  buttons. 

Miss  Moreland  was  so  consciously  irri 
tated  with  life  that  she  was  unusually 
gentle.  She  stooped  down.  The  child 
did  not  seem  six  years  old.  The  face  was 
not  so  very  cunning.  It  was  not  ugly, 
either.  It  was  merely  the  epitome  of  all 
that  Miss  Moreland  tried  to  forget  —  the 
little  one  born  without  a  chance  in  the 
world. 

With  a  full  appreciation  of  the  child's 
fear  of  the  police, —  begging  is  a  crime  in 
many  American  towns  —  she  carefully 

[  172  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

questioned  her,  watching  for  the  dreaded 
officer  herself. 

It  was  the  old  story  —  a  dying  mother 
—  no  father  —  no  one  to  do  anything  —  a 
child  sent  out  to  cunningly  defy  the  law, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  only  for  bread. 

Obviously  the  thing  to  do  was  to  deliver 
the  child  up  to  the  police.  It  would  be  at 
once  properly  cared  for,  and  the  mother 
also. 

But  Miss  Moreland  knew  too  much  of 
official  charity  to  be  guilty  of  that. 

The  easiest  thing  was  to  give  her  money. 
But,  unluckily,  she  belonged  to  a  society 
pledged  not  to  give  alms  in  the  streets,  and 
her  sense  of  the  power  of  a  moral  obliga 
tion  was  a  strong  notion  of  duty,  which 
had  descended  to  her  from  her  Puritan 
ancestors.  There  was  one  thing  left  to  do. 

"  Do  you  know  Chardon  Street?  "  she 
asked. 

The  child  nodded. 

There  was  a  flower  shop  on  the  corner. 
She  led  the  child  across  to  it,  entered,  and 
asked  for  an  envelope.  She  wrote  a  few 
lines  on  a  card,  enclosed  it  and  sealed  the 
envelope.  Then  she  went  out  to  the  side 
walk  again  with  the  child.  Stooping  over 
her  she  made  sure  that  the  little  one  really 

C  173  3 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

did  know  the  street.  "  It  isn't  far  from 
here,"  she  said.  "  Give  that  to  any  one 
there,  and  somebody  will  go  right  home 
with  you  to  see  your  mother,  to  warm  you, 
you  poor  little  mite,  and  feed  you,  and 
make  you  quite  happy." 

She  did  not  explain,  and  the  child  would 
not  have  understood,  that  she  vouched  for 
a  special  donation  for  the  case  as  a  sort  of 
commemorative  gift.  The  sum  was  large 
—  it  was  a  quixotic  sort  of  salve  to  a  sick 
conscience  which  told  her  that  she  ought 
to  go  herself. 

The  child,  still  sobbing,  turned  away, 
and  drearily  started  up  the  hill.  She  did 
not  go  far,  however.  Miss  Moreland  had 
her  misgivings  on  that  point.  And,  just 
as  she  was  about  to  draw  a  breath  of  relief, 
convinced  that,  after  all,  she  would  go,  the 
girl  stopped  deliberately  in  the  shadow  of 
a  tree,  and  sat  down  on  the  snow-covered 
curbstone. 

No  need  to  ask  what  the  trouble  was. 
The  poor  are  born  with  a  horror  of 
organized  charity.  It  obliges  them  to  be 
looked  over  in  all  their  misery;  it  presumes 
a  worthiness,  or  its  pretence,  which  they 
resent  almost  as  much  as  they  do  the  intru- 

[  174  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

sion  of  the  visiting  committee.  This  dis 
inclination  is  as  old  as  poverty,  and  is  the 
rock  ahead  of  all  organized  charity.  Its 
exemplification  was  very  trying  to  Miss 
Moreland  at  that  moment,  and  the  crouch 
ing  figure  was  exasperating. 

She  pursued  the  child.  She  pulled  her 
rather  roughly  to  her  feet.  It  was  so  pro 
voking  to  have  her  sit  down  in  the  cold, 
and  to  so  personify  all  that  she  wanted  so 
ardently, —  it  was  purely  selfish,  she  knew 
that, —  to  put  out  of  her  mind.  There 
seemed  but  one  thing  to  do:  go  with  the 
child. 

She  knew  that  if  she  did  not,  she  would 
not  sleep  that  night,  nor  smile  the  next  day 
—  and  that  seemed  so  unfair  to  others. 
Besides,  it  was  not  yet  so  very  late. 

Bidding  the  child  hurry,  she  followed 
her  up  the  hill,  and  down  the  other  side  to 
a  part  of  the  city  with  which  she  was  not 
familiar. 

The  child  cried  quietly  all  the  way. 

Miss  Moreland  was  too  vaguely  uncom 
fortable  to  talk  to  her,  as  they  hurried 
along. 

It  was  in  front  of  a  dark  house  that  they 
finally  stopped,  and  went  up  the  stone  steps 

[  175  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

into  a  hall  so  dark  that  she  was  obliged  to 
take  the  child's  dirty  cold  hands  in  hers  to 
be  sure  of  the  way. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  foolish  distaste  for 
the  contact,  combined  with  her  frame  of 
mind,  which  prevented  her  from  noticing 
facts  far  from  trifles,  which  came  back  to 
her  afterward. 

She  groped  her  way  up  the  uncarpeted 
stairs,  and  followed  her  still  whimpering 
guide  along  what  seemed  an  upper  corri 
dor,  stumbled  on  what  she  immediately 
knew  was  the  sill  of  a  door,  lurched  for 
ward  as  the  child  let  go  of  her  hand,  and, 
before  she  recovered  her  balance,  the  door 
closed  behind  her. 

She  called  to  the  child.     No  answer. 

She  felt  for  the  door,  found  it  —  it  was 
locked. 

She  was  in  perfect  darkness. 

A  terrible  wave  of  sickness  passed  over 
her  and  left  her  trembling  and  weak. 

All  she  had  ever  heard  and  found  it 
difficult  to  believe,  coursed  through  her 
mind. 

The  folly  of  it  all  was  worse.  Fifteen 
minutes  before  all  had  been  well  with  her 
—  and  now  — ! 

Through  all  her  terror  one  idea  was 

[  176  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

strong  within  her.  She  must  keep  her 
head,  she  must  be  calm,  she  must  be  alertly 
ready  for  whatever  happened. 

The  whole  thing  had  seemed  so  simple. 
The  crying  child  had  been  so  plausible ! 
Yet  —  to  enter  a  strange  dark  house,  in 
an  unknown  part  of  the  city !  How  absurd 
it  was  of  her !  And  that  —  after  noticing 
—  as  she  had  —  that,  cold  as  the  halls 
were  and  uncarpeted,  there  was  neither 
smell  of  dirt  nor  humanity  in  the  air ! 

While  all  these  thoughts  pursued  one  an 
other  through  her  mind  she  stood  erect 
just  inside  the  door. 

She  really  dared  not  move. 

Suddenly  a  fear  came  to  her  that  she 
might  not  be  alone.  For  a  moment  that 
fear  dominated  all  other  sensations.  She 
held  her  breath,  in  a  wild  attempt  to  hear 
she  knew  not  what. 

It  was  deathly  still! 

She  backed  to  the  door,  and  began 
cautiously  feeling  her  way  along  the  wall. 
Inch  by  inch,  she  crept  round  the  room, 
startled  almost  to  fainting  at  each  obstacle 
she  encountered. 

It  was  a  large  room  with  an  alcove  —  a 
bedroom.  There  was  but  little  furniture, 
one  door  only,  two  windows  covered  with 

[  177  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

heavy  drapery,  the  windows  bolted  down, 
and  evidently  shuttered  on  the  outside. 

When  she  returned  to  the  door,  one 
thing  was  certain,  she  was  alone.  The 
only  danger  she  need  apprehend  must  come 
through  that  one  door. 

Yet  she  pushed  a  chair  against  the  wall 
before  she  sat  down  to  wait  —  for  what? 
Ah,  that  was  the  horror  of  it!  Was  it 
robbery?  There  was  her  engagement 
ring,  a  few  ornaments  like  her  watch,  and 
very  little  money!  Yet,  as  she  had  seen 
misery,  even  that  might  be  worth  while. 
But  was  this  a  burglar's  method?  A 
ransom?  That  was  too  mediaeval  for  an 
American  city.  If  neither,  then  what? 

She  had  but  one  enemy  in  the  world,  her 
Jack's  best  friend,  or  at  least,  he  was  his 
best  friend  until  the  days  of  her  engage 
ment.  But  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  these 
were  the  days  when  men  did  not  revenge 
themselves  on  women  who  frankly  rejected 
the  attentions  they  had  never  encouraged. 
It  was  weak,  she  knew  it,  to  even  remember 
the  words  he  had  said  to  her  when  she  had 
refused  to  hear  the  man  she  was  to  marry 
slandered  by  his  chum  —  still  she  wished 
now  that  she  had  told  Jack,  all  the  same. 

If  she  could  only  have  a  light!     There 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

was  gas,  but  no  matches.  To  sit  in  the 
dark,  waiting,  she  knew  not  what,  was 
maddening. 

Then  a  new  terror  came  over  her.  Sup 
pose  she  should  fall  asleep  from  fatigue 
and  exhaustion,  and  the  effect  of  the  dark? 

It  seemed  days  that  she  sat  there. 

She  knew  afterward  that  it  was  only  five 
hours  and  a  half,  but  that  five  hours  and  a 
half  were  an  eternity  —  three  hundred  and 
thirty  minutes,  each  one  of  which  dragged 
her  down,  like  a  weight,  into  the  black 
abyss  of  the  unknown;  three  hundred  and 
thirty  minutes  of  listening  to  the  labored 
beating  of  her  own  heart  —  it  was  an  age, 
after  all! 

Only  once  did  she  lose  control  of  her 
self.  She  imagined  she  heard  voices  in  the 
hall  —  that  some  one  laughed  —  was  there 
still  laughter  in  the  world?  In  spite  of 
herself,  she  rushed  to  the  door,  and 
pounded  on  it.  This  was  so  useless  that 
she  began  to  cry  hysterically.  Yet  she 
knew  how  foolish  that  was,  and  she  stum 
bled  back  to  her  chair,  sank  into  it,  and 
calmed  herself.  She  would  not  do  that 
again. 

What  was  her  mother  thinking?  Poor 
mama!  What  would  Jack  say,  when,  at 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

eleven  o'clock,  he  ran  in  from  his  bachelor's 
dinner  —  his  last  —  which  he  was  giving 
to  a  few  friends  ?  What  would  her  father 
say?  He  had  always  prophesied  some 
disaster  for  her  excursions  into  the  slums. 

Her  imagination  could  easily  picture  the 
mad  search  that  would  be  made  —  but 
who  could  find  a  trace  of  her? 

The  blackness,  the  fear,  the  dread,  were 
doing  their  work !  She  was  numb  !  She 
began  to  feel  as  if  she  were  suspended  in 
space,  as  if  everything  had  dropped  away 
from  her,  as  if  in  another  instant  she  would 
fall  _  and  fall  —  and  fall  — . 

Suddenly  she  heard  a  laugh  in  the  hall 
again  —  this  time  there  was  no  mistake 
about  it,  for  it  was  followed  by  several 
voices.  Some  one  approached  the  door. 

A  key  was  inserted  and  turned  in  the 
lock. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  steadied 
herself! 

The  door  swung  open  quickly  —  some 
one  entered.  By  the  dim  light  in  the  hall 
behind,  she  saw  that  it  was  a  man  —  a 
gentleman  in  evening  clothes,  with  a  hat  on 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  a  coat  over  his 
arm. 

But  while  her  alert  senses  took  that  in, 
[  180  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

the  door  closed  again  —  the  man  had  re 
mained  inside. 

The  thought  of  making  a  dash  for  the 
door  came  to  her,  but  it  was  too  late. 

She  heard  the  scratching  of  a  match  — 
a  muttered  oath  at  the  darkness  in  a  thick 
voice  —  then  a  sudden  flood  of  light 
blinded  her. 

She  drew  her  hands  quickly  across  her 
eyes,  and  was  conscious  that  the  man  had 
flung  his  hat  and  coat  on  the  bed  before 
he  turned  to  face  her. 

In  a  moment  all  her  fear  was  gone. 

She  stumbled  weakly  as  -she  ran  toward 
him,  crying  hysterically,  "  Jack,  dear  Jack, 
how  did  you  find  me  ?  I  should  have  gone 
mad  if  you  had  been  much  later !  Take 
me  home!  Take  me  home — " 

Had  Miss  Moreland  fainted,  as  a  well- 
conducted  girl  of  her  class  ought  to  have 
done,  this  would  have  been  a  very  differ 
ent  kind  of  a  story. 

Unluckily,  or  luckily,  according  as  one 
views  life  —  in  the  relief  of  his  presence, 
all  danger  of  that  fled.  Unluckily  for 
him,  also,  the  appearance  of  his  bride- 
elect  in  such  an  unexpected  place  was  so 
appalling  to  him  that  his  nerve  failed  him 
entirely.  Instead  of  clasping  her  in  his 

C  181  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

arms  as  he  should  have  done,  he  had  the 
decency  to  recoil,  and  cover  his  face  in 
stinctively  from  her  eyes. 

Miss  Moreland  stopped  as  if  turned  to 
stone. 

She  was  conscious  at  first  of  but  one 
thing  —  he  had  not  expected  to  find  her 
there.  He  had  not  come  to  seek  her. 
Then,  for  what? 

A  sudden  flash  illumined  her  ignorance, 
and  behind  it  she  grasped  at  the  vague  ac 
cusation  her  other  suitor  had  tried  to  make 
to  her  unwilling  ears. 

Her  outstretched  hands  fell  to  her  sides. 

He  still  leaned  against  the  wall,  where 
the  shock  had  flung  him.  The  exciting 
fumes  of  the  wine  he  had  drunk  too  reck 
lessly  evaporated,  and  only  a  dim  recol 
lection  remained  in  his  absolutely  sobered 
brain  of  the  idiotic  wager,  the  ugly  jest, 
the  still  more  contemptible  bravado  that 
had  sent  him  into  this  hell. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  speak. 

When  her  strained  voice  said:  "  Take 
me  home,  please,"  he  started  and  the  fear 
that  had  been  on  her  face  was  now  on  his. 
A  hundred  dangers,  of  which  she  did  not 
dream,  stood  between  that  room  and  a 
safe  exit  in  which  she  should  not  be  seen, 

[  182  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

and  that  much  of  this  wretched  business  — 
which  he  understood  now  only  too  well  — 
miscarry. 

He  started  for  the  door.  "  Stay  here," 
he  said.  "  You  are  perfectly  safe,"  and 
he  went  out,  and  closed  and  locked  the 
door  behind  him. 

For  the  man  who  plotted  without,  and 
the  woman  who  sat  like  a  stone  within  that 
room,  the  next  half  hour  were  equally  hor 
rible.  But  time  was  no  longer  measured 
by  her ! 

She  never  remembered  much  more  of 
that  evening.  She  had  a  vague  recollec 
tion  that  he  came  back.  She  had  a  re 
membrance  that  he  had  helped  her  stand 
—  given  her  a  glass  of  water  —  and  led 
her  down  the  uncarpeted  stairs  out  into 
the  street.  Then  she  was  conscious  that 
she  wralked  a  little  way.  Then  that  she 
had  been  helped  into  a  carriage,  and  then 
she  had  jolted  and  jolted  and  jolted  over 
the  pavings,  always  with  his  pale  face  op 
posite,  and  she  knew  that  his  eyes  were  full 
of  pity.  Then  everything  seemed  to  stop, 
but  it  was  only  the  carriage  that  had  come 
to  a  standstill.  She  was  in  front  of  her 
own  door. 

A  voice   said  in  her   ear,    "  Can  you 

[  183  ]  ' 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

stand?"  And  she  knew  she  was  on  the 
steps.  She  heard  the  bell  ring,  but  before 
her  mother  could  catch  her  in  her  arms  as 
she  fell,  she  heard  the  carriage  door  bang, 
and  he  was  gone  forever. 

All  that  night  she  lay  and  tossed  and 
wept  and  raved,  and  longed  in  her  fever 
to  die. 

And  all  night,  he  walked  the  streets 
marvelling  at  himself,  at  Nature,  and  at 
Civilization,  between  which  he  had  so  dis 
astrously  fallen,  and  wondering  to  how 
many  men  the  irremediable  had  ever  hap 
pened  before. 

And  the  next  morning,  early,  messen 
gers  were  flying  about  with  notices  of  the 
bride's  illness. —  Miss  Moreland's  wed 
ding  was  deferred  by  brain  fever. 

When  she  recovered,  her  hair  was  white, 
and  she  had  lost  all  taste  for  matrimony, 
but  she  had  found  instead  that  desire  for 
anything  rather  than  personal  existence, 
which  made  her  the  ardent,  self-abnegat 
ing  worker  for  the  welfare  of  the  down 
trodden  that  the  world  knew  her. 

There  was  a  moment  of  surprised  si 
lence. 

Some  one  coughed.     No  one  laughed. 

[  184  ] 


THE  LAWYER'S  STORY 

Then  the  Journalist,  always  ready  to  leap 
into  a  breach,  gasped:  "  Horrible!  " 

4<  Getting  to  be  a  pet  word  of  yours," 
said  the  Lawyer. 

The  Violinist  tried  to  save  the  situation 
by  saying  gently:  "Well,  I  don't  know. 
It  is  the  commonest  of  all  situations  in  a 
melodrama.  So  why  fuss?" 

The  Trained  Nurse  shrugged  her  shoul 
ders.  "  I  know  that  story,"  she  said. 

"  You  do  not,"  snapped  the  Lawyer. 
"  You  may  know  a  story,  but  you  never 
heard  that  one." 

"  All  right,"  she  admitted.  "  I  am  not 
going  to  add  footnotes,  don't  be  alarmed." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  is  a  true 
story?"  ejaculated  the  Divorcee. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  the  Critic,  "  I  don't 
believe  it." 

"  No  one  asked  you  to,"  replied  the 
Lawyer.  "  It  is  only  another  case  of  the 
Doctor's  pet  theory  —  that  whatever  the 
mind  of  mortal  mind  can  conceive,  can 
come  to  pass." 

"  I  suppose  also  that  it  is  a  proof  of 
another  of  his  pet  theories.  Scratch  civil 
ized  man,  and  you  find  the  beast." 

The  Doctor  was  lying  back  in  his  chair. 
He  never  said  a  word.  Somehow  the 

c  185  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

story  seemed  a  less  suggestive  topic  of  con 
versation  than  usual. 

"  The  weather  is  going  to  change,"  said 
the  Doctor.  **  There's  rain  in  the  air." 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  the  Journalist,  as 
we  gathered  up  our  belongings  and  pre 
pared  to  shut  up  for  the  night,  "  the 
Youngster's  ghost  story  was  a  good  'night 
cap  compared  to  that." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  Critic. 
"  There's  the  foundation  of  a  bully  melo 
drama  in  that  story,  and  I'm  not  sure  that 
it  isn't  the  best  one  yet  —  so  full  of  re 


serves." 


"  No  imagination,  all  the  same,"  an 
swered  the  Critic.  "  As  realistic  in  sub 
ject,  if  not  in  treatment,  as  Zola." 

"  Now  give  us  some  shop  jargon," 
laughed  the  Lawyer.  "  You've  not  really 
treated  us  to  a  true  touch  of  your  methods 
yet." 

"  I  only  do  that,"  laughed  the  Critic, 
"  when  I'm  getting  paid  for  it.  After  all, 
as  the  Violinist  remarked,  the  situation  is 
a  favorite  one  in  melodrama,  from  the 
money-coining  '  Two  Orphans  '  down. 
The  only  trouble  is,  the  Lawyer  poured  his 
villain  and  hero  into  one  mould.  The 
other  man  ought  to  have  trapped  her,  and 
C  186  ] 


LAWYER'S  STORY 

the  hero  rescued  her.  But  that  is  only  the 
difference  between  reality  and  art.  Life 
is  inartistic.  Art  is  only  choosing  the  best 
way.  Life  never  does  that." 

"  Pig's  wrist,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  that 
settled  the  question. 


C  187  ] 


VIII 
THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

IN  A  RAILWAY  STATION 
THE  TALE  OF  A  DANCER 

ON  Friday  night,  just  as  we  were  finish 
ing  dinner  —  we  had  eaten  inside  —  the 
Divorcee  said:  "  It  may  not  be  in  order 
to  make  the  remark,  but  I  cannot  help  say 
ing  that  it  is  so  strange  to  think  that  we  are 
sitting  here  so  quietly  in  a  country  at  war, 
suffering  for  nothing,  very  little  inconven 
ienced,  even  by  the  departure  of  all  the 
men.  The  field  work  seems  to  be  going 
on  just  the  same.  Every  one  seems  calm. 
It  is  all  most  unexpected  and  strange  to 


me." 


"  I  don't  see  it  that  way  at  all,"  said  the 
Journalist.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  were  sitting  on 
a  volcano,  knowing  it  was  going  to  erupt, 
but  not  knowing  at  what  moment." 

"  That  I  understand,"  said  the  Di 
vorcee,  "  but  that  is  not  exactly  what  I 
[  188  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

mean.  I  meant  that,  in  spite  of  that  feel 
ing  which  every  one  between  here  and 
Paris  must  have,  I  see  no  outward  signs 
of  it." 

"  They  are  all  about  us  just  the  same," 
remarked  the  Doctor,  "  whether  you  see 
them  or  not.  Did  it  ever  happen  to  you 
to  be  walking  in  some  quiet  city  street,  near 
midnight,  when  all  the  houses  were  closed, 
and  only  here  and  there  a  street  lamp 
gleamed,  and  here  and  there  a  ray  of  light 
filtered  through  the  shuttered  window  of 
some  silent  house,  and  to  suddenly  remem 
ber  that  inside  all  these  dark  walls  the 
tragedies  of  life  were  going  on,  and  that, 
if  a  sudden  wave  of  a  magician's  wand 
were  to  wipe  away  the  walls,  how  horri 
fied,  or  how  amused  one  would  be?  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  Lawyer,  "  I  have  had 
that  idea  many  times,  but  it  has  come  to 
me  more  often  in  some  hotel  in  the  moun 
tains  of  Switzerland.  I  remember  one 
night  sitting  on  the  terrace  at  Murren, 
with  the  Jungfrau  rising  in  bridal  white 
ness  above  the  black  sides  of  the  Schwarze- 
Monch,  and  the  moon  shining  so  brightly 
over  the  slopes,  that  I  could  count  any 
number  of  isolated  little  chalets  perched 
on  the  ledges,  and  I  never  had  the  feeling 

[  189  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

so  strongly  of  life  going  on  with  all  its 
joys  and  griefs  and  crimes,  invisible,  but 
oppressive.'7 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  that 
there  is  enough  of  it  going  on  right  here 
—  if  we  only  knew  it.  I  had  an  example 
this  afternoon.  I  was  walking  through 
the  village,  when  an  old  woman  called  to 
me,  and  asked  if  I  were  the  doctor  from 
the  old  Grange.  I  said  I  was,  and  she 
begged  me  to  come  in  and  see  her  daugh 
ter-in-law.  She  was  very  ill,  and  the  local 
doctor  is  gone.  I  found  a  young,  very 
pretty  girl,  with  a  tiny  baby,  in  as  bad  a 
state  of  hysteria  as  I  ever  saw.  But  that 
is  not  the  story.  That  I  heard  by  degrees. 
It  seems  the  father-in-law,  a  veteran  of 
1870,  now  old,  and  nearly  helpless,  is  of 
good  family,  but  married,  in  his  middle 
age,  a  woman  of  the  country.  They  had 
one  son  who  was  sent  away  to  school,  and 
became  a  civil  engineer.  He  married, 
about  two  years  ago,  this  pretty  girl  whom 
I  saw.  She  is  Spanish.  He  met  her 
somewhere  in  Southern  Spain,  and  it  was 
a  desperate  love  match.  The  first  child 
was  born  about  six  weeks  before  the  war 
broke  out.  Of  course  the  young  husband 
was  in  the  first  class  mobilized.  The 
[  190  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

young  wife  is  not  French.  She  doesn't 
care  at  all  who  governs  France,  so  that  her 
man  were  left  her  in  peace.  I  imagine 
that  the  old  father  suspected  this.  He  had 
never  been  happy  that  his  one  son  married 
a  foreigner.  The  instant  the  young  wife 
realized  that  her  man  was  expected  to  put 
love  of  France  before  love  of  her,  she 
began  to  make  every  effort  to  induce  him 
to  go  out  of  the  country.  To  make  a  long 
story  short,  the  son  went  to  his  mother, 
whom  he  adored,  made  a  clean  breast  of 
the  situation,  and  proposed  that,  to  satisfy 
his  wife,  he  should  start  with  her  for  the 
Spanish  frontier,  finding  means  to  have  her 
brother  meet  them  there  and  take  her 
home  to  her  own  people.  He  promised 
to  make  no  effort  to  cross  the  frontier  him 
self,  and  gave  his  word  of  honor  to  be 
with  his  regiment  in  time.  He  knew  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  do,  and,  in  case  of 
accident,  he  wished  his  mother  to  be  able 
to  explain  to  the  old  veteran.  But  the  lad 
had  counted  without  the  spirit  that  is  dom 
inant  in  every  French  woman  to-day. 
The  mother  listened.  She  controlled  her 
self.  She  did  not  protest.  But  that  night, 
when  the  young  couple  were  about  to  leave 
the  house,  carrying  the  sleeping  baby,  they 

C 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

found  the  old  man,  pistol  in  hand,  with  his 
back  against  the  door.  The  words  were 
few.  The  veteran  stated  that  his  son 
could  only  pass  over  his  dead  body  —  that 
if  he  insisted,  he  would  shoot  him  before 
he  would  allow  him  to  pass:  that  neither 
wife  nor  child  should  leave  France.  It 
was  in  vain  that  the  wife,  on  her  knees, 
pleaded  that  she  was  not  French  —  that 
the  war  did  not  concern  her  —  that  her 
husband  was  dearer  to  her  than  honor  — 
and  so  forth.  The  old  man  declared  that 
in  marrying  his  son  she  became  French, 
though  she  was  a  disgrace  to  the  name, 
that  her  son  was  a  born  Frenchman;  that 
she  might  go,  and  welcome,  but  that  she 
would  go  without  the  child,  and,  of  course, 
that  ended  the  argument.  The  next  morn 
ing  the  baby  was  christened,  but  the  tale 
had  leaked  out.  I  suppose  the  Spanish 
wife  had  not  kept  her  ideas  absolutely  to 
herself  —  and  the  son  joined  his  regiment. 
The  Spanish  wife  is  still  here,  but,  need 
less  to  say,  she  is  not  at  all  loved  by  her 
husband's  family,  who  watch  her  like 
lynxes  for  fear  she  will  abduct  the  child, 
and  she  has  developed  as  neat  a  case  of 
hysterical  mania  of  persecution  as  I  ever 
encountered.  So  you  see  that  even  in  this 
[  192  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

quiet  place  there  are  tragedies  behind  the 
walls.  But  I  seem  to  be  telling  a  story 
out  of  my  turn!  " 

"  And  a  forbidden  war  story,  at  that," 
said  the  Youngster.  "  So  to  change  the 
air  —  whose  turn  is  it?  " 

The  Journalist  puffed  out  his  chest. 
"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  struck  the  traditional 
attitude  of  a  monologist,  "  I  regret  to  in 
form  you  that  you  will  be  obliged  to  have 
a  taste  of  my  histrionic  powers.  I've  got 
to  act  out  part  of  this  story  —  couldn't 
seem  to  tell  it  in  any  other  form." 

"Dora!" 

A  slender  young  woman  turned  at  the 
word,  so  sharply  spoken  over  her  shoulder, 
and  visibly  paled. 

She  was  strikingly  attractive,  in  her 
modish  tailor  frock,  and  her  short  tight 
jacket  of  Persian  lamb,  with  its  high  col 
lar  of  grey  fur  turned  up  to  her  ears. 

Her  singularly  fair  skin,  her  red  hair, 
her  brown  eyes,  with  dark  lashes,  and  nar 
rowly  pencilled  eyebrows  that  were  al 
most  black,  gave  her  a  remarkable  look, 
and  at  first  sight  suggested  that  Nature 
had  not  done  it  all.  But  a  closer  obser- 

[   193   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

vation  convinced  one  that  the  strange  com 
bination  of  such  hair  and  such  eyebrows 
was  only  one  of  those  freaks  by  which  Na 
ture  now  and  then  warns  the  knowing  to 
beware  even  of  marvellous  beauty.  In 
this  case  it  stamped  a  woman  as  one  who 
—  by  several  signs  —  might  be  identified 
by  the  initiated  as  one  of  those,  who,  with 
out  reason  or  logic,  spring  now  and  again 
from  most  unpromising  soil! 

She  had  walked  the  entire  length  of  the 
station  from  the  wide  doors  on  the  street 
side  to  the  swing  doors  at  the  opposite  end 
which  gave  entrance  to  the  tracks. 

As  she  passed,  no  man  had  failed  to  turn 
and  look  after  her,  as,  with  her  well  hung 
skirts  just  clearing  the  wet  pavement,  she 
stepped  daintily  over  the  flagging,  and  so 
lightly  that  neither  boots  nor  skirt  were 
the  worse  for  it.  One  sees  women  in 
Paris  who  know  that  art,  but  it  is  rare  in 
an  American. 

She  must  have  been  long  accustomed  to 
attracting  masculine  eyes,  and  no  wonder, 
for  when  she  stepped  into  the  place  she 
seemed  to  give  a  color  to  the  atmosphere, 
and  everything  and  everybody  went  grey 
and  commonplace  beside  her. 

It  was  a  terrible  night  in  November. 

[   194  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

The  snow  was  falling  rapidly  outside, 
and  the  wind  blew  as  it  can  blow  only  on 
the  New  England  coast. 

It  was  the  sort  of  night  that  makes  one 
forced  to  be  out  look  forward  lovingly  to 
home,  and  think  pityingly  of  the  unfortu 
nate,  while  those  within  doors  involun 
tarily  thank  God  for  comfort,  and  hug  at 
whatever  remnant  of  happiness  living  has 
left  them. 

The  railway  station  was  crowded. 

The  storm  had  come  up  suddenly  at  the 
close  of  a  fair  day.  It  was  the  hour,  too, 
at  which  tradespeople,  clerks,  and  laborers 
were  returning  home  to  the  suburbs,  and 
at  which  the  steamboat  express  for  New 
York  was  being  made  up  —  although  it 
was  not  an  encouraging  night  for  the  lat 
ter  trip. 

The  pretty  young  woman  with  the  red 
hair  had  looked  through  the  door  near  the 
tracks,  and  glanced  to  the  right,  where  the 
New  York  express  should  be.  The  gate 
was  still  closed.  She  was  much  too  early! 
For  a  second  she  hesitated.  She  glanced 
about  quickly,  and  the  look  was  not  with 
out  apprehension.  It  was  evident  that  she 
did  not  see  the  man  who  was  following 
her,  and  who  seemed  to  have  been  waiting 

[  195  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

for  her  near  the  outer  door.  He  did  not 
speak,  nor  attract  her  attention  in  any  way. 
The  crowd  served  him  in  that ! 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  turned 
toward  the  ladies'  waiting  room,  and  just 
as  she  was  about  to  enter,  the  man  behind 
addressed  her  —  and  the  word  v/as  said 
so  low  that  no  one  near  heard  it  —  though, 
by  the  start  she  gave,  it  might  have  been 
a  pistol  shot. 

"  Dora !  " 

She  stood  perfectly  still.  The  color 
died  out  of  her  face;  but  only  for  an  in 
stant.  She  looked  alarmed,  then  per 
plexed,  and  then  she  smiled.  She  was  evi 
dently  a  young  woman  of  resources. 

The  man  was  a  stalwart  handsome  fel 
low  of  his  class  —  though  it  was  almost 
impossible  to  guess  what  that  was  save  that 
it  was  not  that  which  the  world  labels  by 
exterior  signs  "  gentleman."  He  might 
easily  have  been  some  sort  of  a  mechanic. 
Fie  was  certainly  neither  a  clerk  nor  the 
follower  of  any  of  the  unskilled  profes 
sions.  He  was  surely  countrybred,  for 
there  was  a  largeness  in  his  expression  as 
well  as  his  bearing  that  spoke  distinctly  of 
broad  vistas  and  exercise.  He  was  tall 
and  broad-shouldered.  He  stood  well  on 

[  196  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

his  feet,  hampered  as  little  by  his  six  feet 
of  height  and  fourteen  stone  weight  as  he 
was  by  the  size  of  his  hands.  One  would 
have  easily  backed  him  to  ride  well  and 
shoot  straight,  though  he  probably  never 
saw  the  inside  of  what  is  called  a  "  draw 
ing-room." 

There  was  the  fire  of  a  mighty  emotion 
in  his  deep-set  eyes.  There  were  signs  of 
a  tremendous  animal  force  in  his  square 
chin  and  thick  neck,  but  it  was  balanced 
well  by  his  broad  brow  and  wide-set  eyes. 
He  seemed  at  this  moment  to  hold  himself 
in  check  with  a  rigid  stubbornness  that  an 
swered  for  his  New  England  origin,  and 
Puritan  ancestry !  Indeed,  at  the  moment 
he  addressed  the  woman,  but  for  his  eyes, 
he  might  have  seemed  as  indifferent  as  any 
of  the  stone  figures  that  upheld  the  iron 
girders  of  the  roof  above  him ! 

Still  smiling  archly  she  moved  forward 
into  the  waiting  room  and,  passing  through 
the  dense  crowd  that  hung  about  the  door, 
crossed  the  room  to  an  open  space. 

Without  a  word  the  man  followed. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted.  The 
crowd  that  surged  about  them,  coming  and 
going,  and  sometimes  pressing  close  on 
every  side,  seemed  not  to  note  them. 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

And,  if  they  had,  they  would  have  seen 
nothing  more  remarkable  than  an  ex 
tremely  pretty  young  woman  conversing 
quietly  with  a  big  fellow  in  a  reefer  and 
long  boots  —  a  rig  he  carried  well. 

"  Dora!  "  he  said  again,  and  then  had 
to  pause  to  steady  his  voice. 

Dora  wet  her  red  lips  with  the  pointed 
tip  of  her  tiny  tongue;  swallowed  nerv 
ously  once  or  twice,  before  she  spoke. 
She  was  now  facing  him,  and  still  smil 
ing. 

He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face.  He 
did  not  respond  to  the  smile.  His  eyes 
were  tragic.  He  seemed  to  be  seeking 
something  in  her  face  as  if  he  feared  her 
mere  words  would  not  help  him. 

"  Why,  Zeke,"  she  said  at  last,  when  she 
realized  that  he  could  not  get  beyond  her 
name,  "  I  thought  you  had  gone  home  an 
hour  ago!  Why  didn't  you  take  the  5.15 
train?" 

"  I  changed  my  mind !  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  heard  that  you  were  in  town  this 
afternoon.  I  have  been  watching  for  you 
—  for  some  time." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is  —  you  are  fool 
ish.  Where's  the  good  for  you  fretting 
yourself  so?  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

[  198  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

"  I  can't  get  used  to  you  being  about  in 
the  city  streets  alone." 

"How  absurd!" 

"  I  have  been  absurd  a  great  many  times 
of  late  —  in  your  eyes.  Our  ideas  don't 
seem  to  agree  any  more." 

"No,  Zeke,  they  don't!" 

"  Why  speak  to  me  in  that  tone,  Dora? 
Don't  do  it!" 

He  looked  over  her  head,  as  if  to  be 
sure  of  his  hold  on  himself.  He  was 
ghastly  white  about  his  smooth-shaven, 
thick  lips.  Both  hands  were  thrust  deep 
into  his  reefer  pockets. 

"What's  come  to  you,  Zeke?"  she 
asked  nervously.  His  was  not  exactly  the 
face  one  would  see  unmoved! 

He  answered  her  without  looking  at  her. 
It  was  evident  he  did  not  dare  just  yet. 
"  Nothing  much,  I  reckon.  I've  been  a 
bit  down  all  day.  I  really  don't  know 
why,  myself.  I've  had  a  queer  presenti 
ment,  as  if  something  were  going  to  hap 
pen.  As  if  something  terrible  were  com 
ing  to  me." 

'*  Well,  I'm  sorry.  You've  no  occasion 
to  feel  like  that,  I'm  sure." 

."  All  right,  if  you  say  so.  What  train 
shall  we  take?" 

[   199  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

He  stretched  out  one  hand  to  take  the 
small  bag  she  carried. 

She  shrank  back  instinctively,  and  with 
drew  the  bag.  He  must  have  felt  rather 
than  seen  the  movement,  it  was  so  slight. 

His  hand  fell  to  his  side. 

Still,  he  persisted. 

"  I'm  dead  done  up,  Dora.  I  need  my 
dinner,  come  on !  " 

"  Then  you'd  better  take  the  6.00  train. 
You've  just  time,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

"All  right.     Come  on!" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  with 
a  gesture  that  was  entreating.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  touched  her.  A  fright 
ened  look  came  into  her  eyes.  He  did  not 
see  it,  for  he  was  still  avoiding  her  face. 
It  was  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  reading 
something  there  he  did  not  wish  to  know. 

Her  red  lips  had  taken  on  a  petulant 
expression  —  that  of  one  who  hated  to  be 
"  stirred  up."  In  a  childish  voice  — 
which  only  thinly  veiled  an  obstinate  de 
termination  —  she  pouted :  "  I'm  not  go 
ing  —  yet." 

The  words  were  said  almost  under  her 
breath,  as  if  she  were  fearful  of  their  ef 
fect  on  him,  yet  was  determined  to  carry 
her  point. 
[  200  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

But  the  man  only  sighed  deeply  as  he 
replied :  "  I  thought  your  dancing  lessons 
were  over.  I  hoped  I  was  no  longer  to 
spend  my  evenings  alone.  Alone !  Look 
ing  round  at  the  things  that  are  yours,  and 
among  which  I  feel  so  out  of  place,  except 
when  you  are  there  to  make  me  forget. 
God !  What  damnable  evenings  I've 
spent  there  —  feeling  as  if  you  were  slip 
ping  further  and  further  out  of  my  life  — 
as  if  you  were  gone,  and  I  had  only  the 
clothes  you  had  worn,  an  odor  about  me 
somewhere  to  convince  me  that  I  had  not 
dreamed  you!  Sometimes  that  faint,  in 
distinct,  evasive  scent  of  you  in  the  room 
has  almost  driven  me  out  of  my  head.  I 
wonder  I  haven't  killed  you  before  now  — 
to  be  sure  of  you !  I'm  afraid  of  Hell,  I 
suppose,  or  I  should  have." 

The  woman  did  not  look  at  all  alarmed. 
Indeed  there  was  a  light  in  her  amber  eyes 
that  spoke  of  a  kind  of  gratification  in  stir 
ring  this  young  giant  like  that  —  this  huge 
fellow  that  could  so  easily  crush  her  —  but 
did  not!  She  knew  better  why  than  he 
did  —  but  she  said  nothing. 

With  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  space  — 
after  a  pause  —  he  went  on :  "I  was  fool 
enough  to  believe  that  that  was  all  over, 

[  201  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

at  last,  that  you  had  danced  to  your  heart's 
content,  and  that  we  were  to  begin  the  old 
life  —  the  life  before  that  nonsense  — 
over  again.  You  were  like  my  old  Dora 
all  day  yesterday !  The  Dora  I  loved  and 
courted  and  married  back  there  in  the 
woods.  But  I  might  have  known  it  wasn't 
finished  by  the  ache  I  had  here,"  and  he 
struck  himself  a  blow  over  the  heart  with 
his  clenched  fist,  "  when  I  waked  this  morn 
ing,  and  by  the  weight  I've  carried  here  all 
day."  And  he  drew  a  deep  breath  like 
one  in  pain. 

The  woman  looked  about  as  if  appre 
hensive  that  even  his  passionate  undertone 
might  have  attracted  attention,  but  only  a 
man  by  the  radiator  seemed  to  have  no 
ticed,  and  he  had  the  air  of  being  not  quite 
sober  enough  to  understand. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

The  woman  glanced  nervously  at  the 
clock. 

The  man  was  again  staring  over  her 
head. 

It  was  quarter  to  six.  Her  precious 
minutes  were  flying.  She  must  be  rid  of 
him! 

"  See  here,  Zeke,  dear,"  she  said,  in  des 
peration,  speaking  very  rapidly  under  her 
[  202  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

breath  —  no  fear  but  he  would  hear  — 
"  the  truth  is,  that  I'm  not  a  bit  better 
satisfied  with  our  sordid  kind  of  life  than 
I  was  a  year  ago,  when  we  first  discussed 
it.  I'm  awfully  sorry!  You  know  that. 
But  I  can't  change  —  and  there  is  the 
whole  truth!  It's  not  your  fault  in  one 
way  —  and  yet  in  one  way  it  is.  God 
knows  you  have  done  everything  you  could, 
and  more  some  ways  than  you  ought. 
But,  unluckily  for  you,  gratifying  me  was 
not  the  way  to  mend  the  situation  for  your 
self.  It  is  cruel  —  but  it  is  the  truth !  If 
a  man  wants  to  keep  a  woman  of  my  dis 
position  attached  to  him,  he'd  do  far  bet 
ter  to  beat  her  than  over-educate  her,  and 
teach  her  all  the  beauties  of  freedom. 
He  should  keep  her  ignorant,  rather  than 
cultivate  her  imagination,  and  open  up  the 
wonders  of  the  world  to  her.  It's  rough 
on  chaps  like  you,  that  with  all  your  clev 
erness  you've  no  instinct  to  set  you  right 
on  a  point  like  this  —  but  it  is  lucky  for 
women  like  me  —  at  times !  You  were 
determined  to  force  all  this  out  of  me,  so 
you  may  as  well  hear  the  whole  brutal 
truth.  I'm  sick  of  our  stupid  ways  of  life 
—  I  have  been  sick  of  it  for  a  long  time. 
I've  passed  all  power  to  pretend  any 

[  203  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

longer.  I  have  learned  that  there  is  a 
great  and  beautiful  world  within  the  reach 
of  women  who  are  clever  enough  and 
brave  enough  to  grasp  at  an  opportunity, 
without  looking  forward  or  back.  I  want 
to  walk  boldly  to  this.  I'm  not  afraid  of 
the  stepping-stones !  This  is  really  all 
your  fault.  When  you  married  me,  five 
years  ago,  I  was  only  sixteen,  and  very 
much  in  love  with  you.  Now,  why  didn't 
you  make  me  do  the  housework  and  drudge 
as  all  the  other  women  on  the  farms  about 
yours  did?  I'd  have  done  it  then,  and 
willingly,  even  to  the  washing  and  scrub 
bing.  I  had  been  working  in  a  cotton 
mill.  I  didn't  know  anything  better  than 
to  drudge.  I  thought  that  was  a  woman's 
lot.  It  didn't  even  seem  terrible  to  me. 
But  no  —  you  set  yourself  to  amuse  me. 
You  brought  me  way  up  to  town  on  a  wed 
ding  journey.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  saw  there  idle  women  in  the  world,  who 
wore  soft  clothes  and  were  always  dressed 
up.  You  bought  me  finery.  I  was  clever 
and  imitative.  I  pined  for  all  the  excite 
ment  and  beauty  of  city  life  when  we  were 
back  on  the  farm,  in  the  life  you  loved.  I 
cried  for  it,  as  a  child  cries  for  the  moon. 
I  never  dreamed  of  getting  it.  And  you 
[  204  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

surprised  me  by  selling  the  farm,  and  com 
ing  nearer  the  town  to  live.  Just  because 
I  had  an  ear  for  music,  and  could  pick  out 
tunes  on  the  old  melodeon,  I  must  have  a 
piano  and  take  lessons.  Just  because  my 
music  teacher  happened  to  be  French  and 
I  showed  an  aptitude  for  studying,  that 
must  be  gratified.  Can  you  really  blame 
me  if  I  want  to  see  more  of  the  wide  world 
that  opened  up  to  me?  Did  you  really 
think  French  novels  and  music  were  likely 
to  make  a  woman  of  my  lively  imagination 
content  with  her  lot  as  wife  of  a  mechanic 
—  however  clever  ?  " 

The  man  looked  down  at  her  as  if 
stunned.  Arguments  of  that  sort  were  a 
bit  above  the  reasoning  of  the  simple  mas 
culine  animal,  who  seemed  to  belong  to 
that  race  which  comprehends  little  of  the 
complex  emotions,  and  looks  on  love  as 
the  one  inevitable  passion  of  life,  and  on 
marriage  as  its  logical  result  and  everlast 
ing  conclusion. 

It  was  probable  at  this  moment  that  he 
completed  his  alphabet  in  the  great  lesson 
of  life  —  and  spelled  out  painfully  the  aw 
ful  truth,  that  not  all  the  royal  service  of 
worship  and  love  in  a  man's  heart  can  hold 
a  woman. 

[  205   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

There  was  something  akin  to  a  sob  in 
his  throat  as  he  replied:  "  You  were  so 
young  —  so  pretty!  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  that  you  should  soil  your  hands  for 
me !  I  wanted  to  make  up  to  you  for  all 
the  hardships  and  sorrows  of  your  child 
hood.  I  dreamed  of  being  mother  and 
father  as  well  as  husband  to  you.  I 
thought  it  would  make  you  happy  to  owe 
everything  to  me  —  as  happy  as  it  made 
me  to  give.  I  would  willingly  have  car 
ried  you  every  step  of  your  life,  rather 
than  you  should  have  tired  your  feet.  Is 
that  a  sin  in  a  woman's  eyes?" 

A  whimsical  smile  broke  over  the  wom 
an's  face.  It  quivered  on  her  red  lips  for 
just  a  breath,  as  if  conscious  how  ill-timed 
it  was.  "  I  really  like  to  tire  my  feet," 
she  murmured,  and  she  pointed  the  toe  of 
her  tiny  boot,  as  if  poised  to  dance,  and 
looked  down  on  it  with  evident  admira 
tion. 

The  man  caught  his  breath  sharply. 

"  It's  that  damned  dancing  that  has  up 
set  you,  Dora !  " 

"Sh!     Don't  swear!     I  do  like  danc 
ing!     I  have  always  told  you  so.     It  was 
you  who  first  admired  it.     It  was  you  who 
let  me  learn." 
[  206  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

"  You  were  my  wife !  I  thought  that 
meant  everything  to  you  that  it  meant  to 
me.  I  loved  your  beauty  because  it  was 
yours;  your  pleasures  because  they  gave 
you  pleasure.  All  my  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong  in  marriage  which  I  learned  in  my 
father's  honest  house  bent  to  your  desires 
and  happiness." 

She  looked  nervously  at  the  clock.  Ten 
minutes  to  six. 

"  Dora  —  for  God's  sake  look  at  me ! 
Dora  —  you're  not  leaving  me?  " 

It  was  an  almost  inarticulate  cry,  as  of 
a  man  who  had  foreseen  his  doom,  and 
only  protested  from  some  unconquerable 
instinct  to  struggle ! 

She  patted  his  clenched  hand  gently. 

It  was  plainly  evident  that  she  hated  the 
sight  of  suffering,  and  hated  more  not  hav 
ing  her  own  way,  and  was  possessed  by  a 
refined  kind  of  cowardice. 

"  Don't  make  a  row,  there's  a  dear  boy ! 
It  is  like  this:  I  am  going  over  to  New 
York,  just  for  a  few  weeks.  I  would 
have  told  you  yesterday,  only  I  hated  spoil 
ing  a  nice  day.  It  was  a  nice  day  ?  —  with 
a  scene.  You'll  find  a  nice  long  letter  at 
home  —  it's  a  sweet  one,  too  —  telling 
you  all  about  it.  Don't  take  it  too  hard ! 

[  207  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

I  am  going  to  earn  fifty  dollars  a  week  — 
just  fancy  that  —  and  don't  blame  me  too 
much!" 

He  didn't  seem  to  hear!  He  hung  his 
head  —  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelled 
—  there  were  actually  tears  in  his  eyes  — 
and  the  mighty  effort  he  made  to  restrain 
a  sob  was  terrible  —  and  six  feet  of  Amer 
ican  manhood,  as  fine  a  specimen  of  the 
animal  as  the  soil  can  show,  animated  by 
a  spirit  which  represented  well  the  dignity 
of  toil  and  self-respect,  stood  bowed  down 
with  ungovernable  grief  and  shame  before 
a  merely  ornamental  bit  of  femininity. 

Fate  had  simply  perpetrated  another  of 
her  ghastly  pleasantries ! 

The  woman  was  perplexed  —  natu 
rally!  But  it  was  evidently  the  sight  of 
her  work,  and  not  the  work  itself,  that 
pained  her. 

"  Don't  cut  up  so  rough,  Zeke,  please 
don't,"  she  went  on.  "  I'm  very  fond  of 
you  —  you  know  that  —  but  I  detest  the 
odor  of  the  shop,  and  it  is  so  easy  for  us 
both  to  escape  it." 

He  shrank  as  if  she  had  struck  him. 

Instinctively  he  must  have  remembered 
the  cotton  mill  from  which  he  took  her. 
A  man  rarely  understands  a  woman's  fac- 

[  208  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

ulty  for  forgetting  —  that  is  to  say,  no 
man  of  his  class  does. 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  a  bit  selfish  of  you," 
she  went  on,  "  to  object  to  my  earning 
nearly  three  times  what  you  can  —  and  so 
easily  —  and  prettily?" 

"  I  wanted  you  to  be  happy  with  what 
I  could  give  you." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  not.  No  use 
to  fib  about  it!  It  is  too  late.  Your  no 
tions  are  so  queer." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  queer  to  love  one 
woman  —  and  to  love  her  so  that  laboring 
for  her  is  happiness !  I  suppose  you  do 
find  me  a  queer  chap,  because  I  am  not 
willing  that  my  wife  —  flesh  of  my  flesh  — 
should  flaunt  herself,  half  dressed,  to  ex 
cite  the  admiration  of  other  men  —  all  for 
fifty  dollars  a  week!  " 

"  See  here,  Zeke,  you  are  making  too 
much  of  this!  If  it  is  the  separation  you 
can't  stand  —  why  come,  too!  I'll  soon 
enough  be  getting  my  hundred  a  week,  and 
more.  That  is  enough  for  both  of  us. 
You  can  be  with  me,  if  that  is  what  you 
mind!" 

"  If  that  is  what  I  mind?  You  know 
better  than  that!  Am  I  such  a  cur  that 
you  think,  if  there  were  no  other  reason, 

[  209  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

I'd  pose  before  the  world  as  the  husband 
of  a  woman  who  owes  nothing  to  him  — 
as  if  I  were  — " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply. 

"  What  odds  does  it  make  —  tell  me 
that  —  which  of  us  earns  the  money?  To 
have  it  is  the  only  important  thing!  " 

The  man  straightened  up  —  and 
squared  his  broad  shoulders.  A  strange 
change  came  over  him. 

He  laid  his  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and,  for  the  first  time,  he  spoke  with  a  dis 
regard  for  self-control,  although  he  did 
not  raise  his  voice. 

"  Look  at  me,  Dora,  and  be  sure  I  mean 
what  I  say.  Leave  me  to-day,  and  don't 
you  ever  come  back  to  me.  It  may  kill  me 
to  live  without  you.  Well,  better  that 
than  —  than  the  other !  I  married  you  to 
live  with  you  —  not  merely  to  have  you ! 
I've  been  a  faithful  husband  to  you!  I 
shall  remain  that  while  I  live.  I  never 
denied  you  anything  I  could  get  for  you! 
But  this  I  will  not  put  up  with !  I  thought 
you  loved  me  —  even  if  you  were  some 
times  vain,  and  now  and  then  cruel.  If 
you're  ill  —  if  you  disappoint  yourself,  I'll 
be  ready  to  take  care  of  you  —  as  I  prom- 
[  210  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

ised.  But  don't  never  dare  to  come  back 
to  me  otherwise !  Unless  you're  in  want 
and  homeless,  unless  you  can't  live,  but 
by  the  labor  of  my  hands,  I'll  never  sleep 
under  the  same  roof  with  you  again. 
Never !" 

"  What  nonsense,  Zeke !  Of  course  I'll 
come  back!  You  won't  turn  me  away! 
I  only  want  to  see  a  little  of  the  world,  to 
get  a  few  of  the  things  you  can't  give  me 
—  no  blame  to  you,  either!  " 

He  did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

Almost  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  he 
went  on :  "  I've  feared  for  some  time  you 
didn't  love  me.  I  didn't  want  to  believe 
it.  I  was  a  coward.  I  shut  my  eyes.  I 
took  what  you  gave  me  —  I  daren't  think 
of  this  —  which  has  come  to  me !  I  dared 
not!  God  punishes  idolatry!  He  has 
punished  mine.  Be  sure  you're  not  mak 
ing  a  mistake,  Dora !  There  may  be 
other  men  will  admire  you,  my  girl  —  will 
any  of  them  love  you  as  I  do?  There's 
never  a  minute  I'm  not  conscious  of  you, 
sleeping  or  waking.  Think  again,  Dora, 
before  you  leave  me !  " 

"  I  can't,  Zeke.  I've  signed  a  contract. 
I  couldn't  reconsider  if  I  wanted  to.  It's 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

just  seven  minutes  to  train  time.  Kiss  me 
—  there's  a  dear  lad  —  and  don't  row  me 
any  more !  " 

She  raised  herself  on  tip  toes  and  ap 
proached  her  red  lips  to  his  face  —  lips 
of  an  intense  color  to  go  with  the  marked 
pallor  of  the  rest  of  the  face,  and  which 
surely  were  never  offered  to  him  in  vain 
before  —  but  he  was  beyond  their  seduc 
tion  at  last. 

"You've  decided?"  he  said. 

"  Of  course !  " 

"  All  right !  Good-bye,  then  i  You 
promised  to  cleave  to  me  through  thick 
and  thin  c  till  death  did  us  part.'  I'll  have 
no  halfway  business,"  and  he  turned  on  his 
heel,  and  without  looking  back  he  pushed 
his  way  through  the  crowd,  which  chatted 
and  fussed  and  never  even  noted  the  pass 
ing  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  pretty  creature  watched  him  out  of 
sight. 

There  was  a  humorous  pout  on  her  lips. 
But  she  seemed  so  sure  of  her  man!  He 
would  come  back,  of  course  —  when  she 
called  him  —  if  she  ever  did!  Probably 
she  liked  him  better  at  that  moment  than 
she  had  liked  him  in  two  years.  He  had 
opposed  her.  He  had  defied  her  power 
[  212  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

over  him.  He  had  once  more  become  a 
man  to  conquer  —  if  she  ever  had  time ! 

But  just  now  there  was  something  more 
important.  That  train!  It  was  three 
minutes  to  the  schedule  time. 

As  he  disappeared  into  the  crowd  she 
drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  hurried  out  of 
the  waiting  room  and  pushed  her  way  to 
the  platform,  along  which  she  hurried  to 
the  parlor  car,  v/here  she  seated  herself 
comfortably,  as  if  no  man  with  a  broken 
life  had  been  set  down  that  day  against 
her  record. 

To  be  sure,  she  could  not  quite  rid  her 
self  of  thoughts  of  his  face,  but  the  recol 
lection  rather  flattered  her,  and  did  not  in 
the  least  prevent  her  noticing  the  looks  of 
admiration  with  which  two  men  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  car  were  regarding 
her. 

Once  or  twice  she  glanced  out  of  the 
window,  apparently  alternately  expecting 
and  dreading  to  see  her  stalwart  husband 
come  sprinting  down  the  platform  for  the 
kiss  he  had  refused. 

He  didn't  come ! 

She  was  relieved  as  the  train  started  — 
yet  she  hated  to  feel  he  could  really  let  her 
go  like  that! 

[   213   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

She  never  guessed  at  the  depth  of  suf 
fering  she  had  brought  him.  How  could 
she  appreciate  what  she  could  never  feel? 
She  never  dreamed  that  as  the  train  pulled 
out  into  the  storm  he  stood  at  the  end  of 
the  station,  and  watched  it  slowly  round 
the  curve  under  the  bridge  and  pass  out  of 
sight.  No  one  was  near  to  see  him  turn 
aside,  and  rest  his  arms  against  the  brick 
wall,  to  bury  his  face  in  them,  and  sob  like 
a  child,  utterly  oblivious  of  the  storm  that 
beat  upon  him. 

And  he  sat  down. 

"  Come  on,"  yelled  the  Youngster, 
"  where's  the  claque?  "  And  he  began  to 
applaud  furiously. 

"  Oh,  if  there  is  a  claque,  the  rest  of  us 
don't  need  to  exert  ourselves,"  said  the 
Lawyer,  indolently. 

"  But  I  say,"  asked  the  Youngster,  after 
the  Journalist  had  made  his  best  bow.  "  I 
AM  disappointed.  Was  that  all?  " 

"  My  goodness,"  commented  the  Doc 
tor,  as  he  lighted  a  fresh  cigar.  "  Isn't 
that  enough?  " 

"  Not  for  me"  replied  the  Youngster. 
"  I  want  to  know  about  her  debut.  Was 
she  a  success?  " 

[  214  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

"  Of  course,"  answered  the  Journalist. 
"  That  sort  always  is." 

"  And  I  want  to  know,"  insisted  the 
Youngster,  "  what  became  of  him?  " 

"Why,"  ejaculated  the  Sculptor,  "of 
course  he  cut  his  big  brown  throat !  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  the  Critic. 
"  He  probably  went  up  to  New  York,  and 
hung  round  the  stage  door." 

"  Until  she  called  in  the  police,  and  had 
him  arrested  as  a  common  nuisance," 
added  the  Lawyer. 

"  I'll  bet  my  microscope  he  didn't," 
laughed  the  Doctor. 

"  And  you  won't  lose  your  lens,"  re 
plied  the  Journalist.  "  He  never  did  a 
blooming  thing  —  that  is,  he  didn't  if  he 
existed." 

"  Oh,  my  eyes,"  said  the  Youngster. 
"  I  am  disappointed  again.  I  thought 
that  was  a  simon-pure  newspaper  yarn  — 
one  of  your  reporter's  dodges  —  real  jour 
nalese!" 

"  She  is  true  enough,"  answered  the 
Journalist,  "  and  her  feet  are  true,  and  so 
is  her  red  hair,  and,  unless  she  is  a  liar, 
and  most  actresses  are,  so  is  he  and  her 
origin,  but  as  for  the  way  she  cut  him  out 
—  well,  I  had  to  make  that  up.  It  is  bet- 

c  215  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

ter  than  any  of  the  six  tales  she  told  as 
many  interviewers,  in  strict  secrecy,  in  the 
days  when  she  was  collecting  hearts  and 
jewels  and  midnight  suppers  in  New 
York." 

"  Is  she  still  there?  "  asked  the  Young 
ster,  "  because  if  she  is,  I'll  go  back  and 
take  a  look  at  Dora  myself  —  after  the 
war!" 

"  Well,  Youngster,"  laughed  the  Jour 
nalist,  "  it  will  have  to  be  *  after  the  war,' 
as  you  will  probably  have  to  go  to  Berlin  to 
find  her." 

"That's  all  right!"  retorted  the 
Youngster.  "  I  am  going  —  with  the  Al 
lied  armies." 

We  all  jumped  up. 

"  No !  "  cried  the  Divorcee.     "  No !  1  " 

"  But  I  am.  Where's  the  good  of  keep 
ing  it  secret?  I  enlisted  the  day  I  went 
to  Paris  the  first  time  —  so  did  the  Doctor, 
so  did  the  Critic,  and  so  did  he,  the  inno 
cent  looking  old  blackguard,"  and  he 
seized  the  Journalist  by  both  shoulders 
and  shook  him  well.  "  He  thought  we 
wouldn't  find  it  out." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  Journalist,  "  when 
one  has  seen  three  wars,  one  may  as  well 

[  216  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

see  one  more. —  This  will  surely  be  my 
last." 

"  Anyway,"  cried  the  Youngster,  u  we'll 
see  it  all  round  —  the  Doctor  in  the  Field 
Ambulance,  me  in  the  air,  the  Critic  is 
going  to  lug  litters,  and  as  for  the  Jour 
nalist —  well,  I'll  bet  it's  secret  service  for 
him !  Oh,  I  know  you  are  not  going  to 
tell,  but  I  saw  you  coming  out  of  the  Eng 
lish  Embassy,  and  I'll  bet  my  machine 
you've  a  ticket  for  London,  and  a  letter  to 
the  Chief  in  your  pocket." 

"  Bet  away,"  said  the  Critic. 

"What'd  I  tell  you  — what'd  I  tell 
you?  He  speaks  every  God-blessed  lan 
guage  going,  and  if  it  wasn't  that,  he'd  tell 
fast  enough." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  Trained  Nurse, 
"  so  that  he  goes  somewhere  —  with  the 
rest  of  us." 

"You—  You?"  exclaimed  the  Di 
vorcee. 

;'  Why  not?  I  was  trained  for  this  sort 
of  thing.  This  is  my  chance." 

14  And  the  rest  of  us?" 

The  Doctor  intervened.  "  See  here, 
this  is  forty-eight  hours  or  more  earlier 
than  I  meant  this  matter  to  come  up.  I 

[  217  ] 


.TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

might  have  known  the  Youngster  could 
not  hold  his  tongue." 

"  I've  been  bursting  for  three  days." 

*  Well,  youVe  burst  now,  and  I  hope 
you  are  content.  There  is  nothing  to 
worry  about,  yet.  We  fellows  are  leav 
ing  September  ist.  The  roads  are  all 
clear,  and  it  was  my  idea  that  we  should  all 
start  for  Paris  together  early  next  Tues 
day  morning.  I  don't  know  what  the  rest 
of  you  want  to  do,  but  I  advise  you"  turn 
ing  to  the  Divorcee,  "  to  go  back  to  the 
States.  You  would  not  be  a  bit  of  good 
here.  You  may  be  there." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  replied 
sadly.  "  I'd  be  worse  than  no  good.  I'd 
need  '  first  aid/  at  the  first  shot." 

"  I'm  going  with  her,"  said  the  Sculp 
tor.  "  I'd  be  more  useless  than  she 
would."  And  he  turned  a  questioning 
look  at  the  Lawyer. 

"  I  must  go  back.  I've  business  to  at 
tend  to.  Anyway,  Td  be  an  encumbrance 
here.  I  may  be  useful  there.  Who 
knows?" 

As  for  me,  every  one  knew  what  I  pro 
posed  to  do,  and  that  left  every  one  ac 
counted  for  except  the  Violinist.  He  had 
been  in  his  favorite  attitude  by  the  tree, 

[  218  ] 


THE  JOURNALIST'S  STORY 

just  as  he  had  been  on  that  evening  when 
it  had  been  proposed  to  "  tell  stories," 
gazing  first  at  one  and  then  at  another,  as 
the  hurried  conversation  went  on. 

"  Well,"  he.  said,  finding  all  eyes  turned 
on  him,  "  I  am  going  to  London  with  the 
Journalist  —  if  he  is  really  going." 

"  All  right,  I  am,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  from  London  I  shall  get  to  St. 
Petersburg.  I  have  a  dream  that  out  of 
all  this  something  may  happen  to  Poland. 
If  it  does,  I  propose  to  be  there.  I'll  be 
no  good  at  holding  a  gun  —  I  could  never 
fire  one.  But  if,  by  some  miracle,  there 
comes  out  of  this  any  chance  for  the  *  Fair 
Land  of  Poland '  to  crawl  out,  or  be 
dragged  out,  from  under  the  feet  of  the 
invader  —  well,  I'll  go  home  —  and  — 
and  — " 

He  hesitated. 

"  And  grow  up  with  the  country," 
shouted  the  Youngster.  "  Bully  for  you." 

"  I  may  only  go  back  to  fiddle  over  the 
ruins.  But  who  knows?  At  all  events, 
I'll  go  back  and  carry  with  me  all  that 
your  country  had  done  for  three  genera 
tions  of  my  family.  They'll  need  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  that  is  all 
settled.  Enough  for  to-night.  We'll  still 

[  219  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

have  one  or  two,  and  it  may  be  three  days 
left  together.  Let  us  make  the  most  of 
them.  They  will  never  come  again." 

"  And  to  think  what  a  lovely  summer 
we  had  planned,"  sighed  the  Divorcee. 

"Tush!"  ejaculated  the  Doctor. 
'  We  had  a  lovely  time  all  last  year.  As 
for  this  summer,  I  imagine  that  it  has  been 
far  finer  than  what  we  planned.  Anyway, 
let  us  be  thankful  that  it  was  this  summer 
that  we  all  found  one  another  again." 

"  Better  go  to  bed,"  cried  the  Critic; 
"the  Doctor  is  getting  sentimental  —  a 
bad  sign  in  an  army  surgeon." 

"  I  don't  know,"  remarked  the  Trained 
Nurse;  "I've  seen  those  that  were  more 
sentimental  than  the  Journalist,  and  none 
the  worse  for  it." 


[  220  ] 


IX 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  SONG 
THE  TALE  OF  A  FIANCEE 

ON  Saturday  most  of  the  men  made  a 
run  into  Paris. 

It  had  finally  been  decided  as  best  that, 
if  all  went  well,  we  should  leave  for  Paris 
some  time  the  next  day.  There  were 
steamer  tickets  to  attend  to.  There  were 
certain  valuables  to  be  taken  up  to  the 
Bank.  The  Divorcee  had  a  trunk  or  two 
that  she  thought  she  ought  to  send  in  order 
that  we  might  start  with  as  little  luggage 
as  possible,  so  both  chauffeurs  were  sent  up 
to  town  with  baggage,  and  orders  to  wait 
there.  The  rest  of  us  had  been  busy  do 
ing  a  little  in  the  way  of  dismantling  the 
house.  The  unexpected  end  of  our  sum 
mer  had  come.  It  was  sad,  but  I  imagine 
none  of  us  were  sorry,  under  the  circum 
stances,  to  move  on. 

It  was  nearly  dinner  time  when  the  cars 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

came  back,  almost  together,  and  we  were 
surprised  to  see  the  Doctor  going  out  to 
the  servants'  quarters  instead  of  joining 
us  as  he  usually  did.  In  fact,  we  did  not 
see  him  until  we  went  into  the  dining  room 
for  dinner. 

As  he  came  to  the  head  of  the  table,  he 
said:  "My  good  people,  we  will  serve 
ourselves  as  best  we  can  with  the  cook's 
aid.  We  have  no  waitress  to-night.  But 
it  is  our  last  dinner.  A  camp  under 
marching  orders  cannot  fuss  over  trifles. " 

"Where  is  Angele?"  asked  the  Di 
vorcee.  "  Is  she  ill?"  And  she  turned 
to  the  door. 

"Come  back!"  said  the  Doctor, 
sharply.  "  You  can't  help  her  now.  Bet 
ter  leave  her  alone !  " 

As  if  by  instinct,  we  all  knew  what  had 
happened. 

"Who  brought  the  news?"  some  one 
asked. 

"  They  gave  it  to  me  at  the  Maine  as 
I  passed,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  and  the 
garde  champetre  told  me  what  the  envel 
ope  contained.  He  fell  at  Charleroi." 

"  Poor  Angele,"  exclaimed  the  Trained 
Nurse.  "  Are  you  sure  I  could  not  help 
her?" 

[    222    ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

"  Sure,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  She  took  it 
as  a  Frenchwoman  should.  She  snatched 
the  baby  from  its  cradle,  and  held  it  a 
moment  close  to  her  face.  Then  she 
lifted  it  above  her  head  in  both  hands,  and 
said,  almost  without  a  choke  in  her  throat, 
€  Vive  la  France,  quand  meme!' — and 
dropped.  I  put  them  on  the  bed  together, 
she  and  the  boy.  She  was  crying  like  a 
good  one  when  I  left  her.  She's  all 
right." 

"Poor  child  —  and  that  tiny  baby!'1 
exclaimed  the  Divorcee,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  Fudge,"  said  the  Doctor.  "She  is 
the  widow  of  a  hero,  and  the  mother  of 
the  hero's  son.  Considering  what  life  is, 
that  is  to  be  one  of  the  elect  of  Fate. 
She'll  go  through  life  with  a  halo  round 
her  head,  and,  like  most  of  the  French 
women  I  have  seen,  she'll  wear  it  like  a 
crown.  It  becomes  us,  in  the  same  spirit, 
to  partake  of  the  food  before  us.  This 
life  is  a  wonderful  spectacle.  If  you  saw 
an  episode  like  that  in  a  drama,  at  the 
theatre,  you  would  all  cheer  like  mad." 

We  knew  he  was  right. 

But  the  Youngster  could  not  help  add 
ing,  "  That's  twice  —  two  days  running, 
that  the  Doctor  has  told  a  story  out  of  his 

[  223  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

turn,  and  both  times  he  outraged  the  con 
sign,  for  both  times  it  was  a  war  story." 
That  seemed  to  break  the  ice.  We 
talked  more  or  less  war  during  dinner,  but 
this  time  there  were  no  disputes.  Still  I 
think  we  were  glad  when  the  cook  trotted 
in  with  the  trays,  and  with  our  elbows  on 
the  table,  we  turned  toward  the  Violinist, 
who  leaned  against  the  high  back  of  his 
chair,  and  with  his  long  white  hands  rest 
ing  on  the  carved  arms,  and  his  eyes  on 
the  ceiling  —  an  attitude  that  he  did  not 
change  during  the  narrative,  began : 

It  was  in  the  early  eighties  that  I  re 
turned  from  Germany  to  my  native  land, 
and  settled  myself  and  my  violin  in  the  city 
of  my  birth. 

I  was  not  rich  as  my  countrymen  judge 
wealth,  but,  in  my  own  estimation,  I  was 
well  to  do.  I  had  enough  to  live  without 
labor,  and  was,  therefore,  able  to  devote 
myself  to  my  art  without  considering  too 
closely  the  recompense. 

In  addition  to  that,  I  was  still  young. 

I  had  more  love  for  my  chosen  mistress 

—  Music  —  than  the  Goddess  had  for  me, 

for,  while  she  accepted  my  worship  with 

indulgence,  she  wasted  fewer  gifts  on  me 

[  224  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

than  fell  to  the  lot  of  many  a  less  faithful 
follower. 

Still,  I  was  happy  and  content  in  my  love 
for  her,  and  only  needed  her  to  keep  me  so 
until,  a  year  after  my  return,  I  met  one 
woman,  loved  her,  and  begged  her  to  share 
with  my  music,  my  heart,  and  its  adora 
tion. 

That  satisfied  her,  since,  in  her  own 
love  for  the  same  art,  she  used  to  assure 
me  that  she  possessed,  by  proxy,  that 
other  half  of  myself  which  I  still  dedi 
cated  to  the  Muse. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  vibrant  spirit  of  this 
woman  which  seemed  musical  to  me,  and 
which  I  so  ardently  loved,  for  she  ap 
peared  to  have  a  veritable  violin  soul. 
Her  face  was  often  the  medium  through 
which  I  saw  the  spirit  of  the  music  I  was 
playing,  as  it  sang  in  gladness,  sobbed  in 
sadness,  thrilled  in  passion  along  the 
strings  of  my  Amati. 

I  knew  that  I  never  played  so  well  as 
when  her  face  was  before  me.  I  felt  that 
if  ever  I  approached  my  dreams  in 
achievement,  it  would  be  her  soul  that  in 
spired  me.  So  like  was  she,  in  my  fancy, 
to  a  musical  instrument,  that  I  used  to  tell 
her,  when  the  wind  swept  across  her  bur- 

[  225  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

nished  hair,  that  the  air  was  full  of  mel 
ody.  And  when  she  looked  especially 
ethereal  —  as  she  did  at  times  —  I  would 
catch  her  in  my  arms,  and  bid  her  tell  me, 
on  peril  of  her  life,  what  song  was  hidden 
in  her  heart,  that  I  might  teach  it  to  my 
violin,  and  die  great.  Yet,  remarkable  as 
it  seems  to  me  still,  the  Spirit  of  Music 
that  surely  dwelt  within  her,  dwelt  there 
a  dumb  prisoner.  It  had  no  audible  voice, 
though  I  was  not  alone  in  feeling  its  pres 
ence  in  her  eyes,  on  her  lips,  in  her  spir 
itual  charm. 

She  had  a  voice  that  was  melody  itself, 
yet  she  never  sang.  I  always  fancied  her 
hands  were  a  musician's  hands,  yet  she 
never  played.  This  was  the  more  singu 
lar  as  her  mother  had  been  a  great  singer, 
and  her  father,  while  he  had  never  risen 
above  the  desk  of  chef  d'orchestre  in  a 
local  playhouse,  was  no  mean  musician. 

Often,  when  the  charm  of  her  spirit  was 
on  me,  I  would  pretend  to  weave  a  spell 
about  her,  and  conjure  the  spirit  that  was 
imprisoned  in  the  heart  that  was  mine,  to 
come  forth  from  the  shrine  he  was  so  im 
pudently  usurping. 

Ah,  those  were  the  days  of  my  youth ! 

We  had  been  betrothed  but  a  brief  time 
[  226  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

when  Rodriguez,  for  some  seasons  a  Eu 
ropean  celebrity,  made  his  first  appear 
ance  in  our  city. 

I  had  heard  most  of  the  great  violinists 
of  that  time,  had  known  some  of  them  well, 
had  played  with  many  of  them,  as  I  did 
later  with  Rodriguez,  but  I  had  never 
chanced  to  see  or  hear  him. 

His  fame  had,  however,  preceded  him. 
The  newspapers  were  full  of  him.  Faster 
even  than  the  tales  of  his  genius  had  trav 
elled  the  tales  of  his  follies  —  tales  that 
out-Don- Juaned  the  famous  rake  of  tradi 
tion. 

However  little  credence  one  gives  to 
such  reports  —  mad  stories  of  a  scan 
dalous  nature  —  these  repeated  episodes 
of  excesses,  only  tolerated  in  the  conspicu 
ous,  do  color  one's  expectations.  I  sup 
pose  that,  being  young,  I  expected  to  see 
a  man  whose  face  would  bear  the  brand 
of  his  errors  as  well  as  the  stamp  of  his 
genius. 

That  was  not  Rodriguez's  fate.  What 
ever  the  temperamental  struggle  had  been, 
he  was  "  take  him  for  all  in  all,"  the  least 
disappointing  famous  man  that  my  experi 
ence  had  ever  shown  me.  He  was  more 
virile  than  handsome,  and  no  more  aesthetic 

[  227  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

to  look  at  than  he  was  ascetic.  At  that 
time  he  was  on  the  sunny  side  of  forty,  and 
not  yet  at  the  zenith  of  his  great  career. 
His  face  was  fine,  manly,  and  sympathetic. 
His  brow  was  broad,  his  eyes  deep-set 
and  widely  spaced,  but  very  heavy  lidded. 
The  mouth  and  chin  were,  I  must  own,  too 
delicate  and  sensitive  for  the  rest  of  the 
face.  His  dark  hair,  young  as  he  was, 
had  streaks  of  grey.  In  bearing  he  was 
so  erect,  so  sufficient,  that  he  seemed  taller 
than  he  was.  If  he  had  the  vanity  which 
so  often  goes  with  his  kind  of  tempera 
ment,  it  was  most  cleverly  concealed. 
Safe  in  the  dignified  consciousness  of  his 
unquestioned  gifts,  secure  in  his  achieve 
ments,  he  had  a  winning  gentleness,  and 
an  engaging  manner  difficult  to  resist. 

But  for  a  singular  magnetic  light  in  his 
eyes,  which  belied  the  calm  of  his  bearing, 
when  he  chanced  to  raise  the  heavy  lids 
full  on  one  —  they  usually  drooped  a  lit 
tle  —  but  for  a  sensitive  quiver  along  the 
too  full  lips,  as  if  they  still  trembled  from 
the  caress  of  genius  —  the  royal  accolade 
of  greatness  —  he  might  have  looked  to 
me,  as  he  did  to  many,  more  the  diplomat 
than  the  artist. 

It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  analyse  his 

[  228  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

command  of  his  instrument.  I  could  not. 
It  would  be  superfluous  for  me  to  recount 
his  triumphs.  They  are  too  recent  to 
have  been  forgotten.  Both  tasks  have, 
moreover,  been  done  better  than  I  could 
do  either. 

This  I  can  do,  however,  bear  witness  to 
the  glowing  wings  of  hope,  of  longing,  of 
aspiration  which  his  singing  violin  lent  to 
hearts  oppressed  by  commonplace  every 
day  cares,  to  the  moments  of  courage,  of 
re-awakened  endeavor  which  he  inspired 
in  his  fellowmen,  to  the  marvellous  mag 
netism  of  his  playing  which  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  restore  to  a  soul-weary  world 
its  illusions,  and  to  strike  off  the  fetters  of 
despondency  which  bind  mortality  to  earth. 

It  was  not  alone  the  musically  intelli 
gent  who  felt  this,  for  his  playing  had  a 
universal  appeal.  Thorough  musicians 
marvelled  at  and  envied  him  his  mystery 
of  the  details  of  his  art,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  that  those  who  knew  least  of  its  tech 
nique  were  equally  open  to  his  influence. 

I  don't  presume  to  explain  this.  I 
merely  record  it.  There  were  those  who 
analysed  the  fact,  and  explained  it  on  the 
ground  of  animal  magnetism.  For  my 
self,  I  only  know  that,  as  the  magic  music 

[  229  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

which  Hunold  Singref  played  in  the  streets 
of  Hamelin,  whispered  in  the  ears  of  little 
children  words  of  promise,  of  happiness, 
of  comfort  that  none  others  could  hear,  so, 
to  the  emotional  heart,  Rodriguez's  violin 
spoke  a  special  message. 

The  man  who  sets  the  faces  of  the 
throng  upward,  and  lights  their  eyes  with 
the  magic  fire  of  hope,  has  surely  not  lived 
in  vain,  whatever  personal  offerings  he 
may  have  made  on  the  altar  of  his  genius 
to  keep  alive  the  eternal  spark.  It  cannot 
be  denied  that  Art  has  fulfilled  some  part 
of  its  mission  on  earth,  if,  but  for  one  hour, 
thousands,  marshalled  by  its  music,  as  the 
children  of  Israel  by  the  pillar  of  flame, 
have  looked  above  the  dull  atmosphere 
where  pain  and  loss  and  sorrow  are,  to 
feel  in  themselves  that  divine  longing 
which  is  ecstasy,  that  soaring  of  the  spirit 
which,  in  casting  off  fear  and  rising  above 
doubt,  can  cry  out  in  joy,  "  Oh,  blessed 
spark  of  Hope  —  this  soul  which  can  so 
rise  above  sorrow,  so  mount  above  the 
body,  must  be  immortal.  This  which  can 
so  cast  off  care  cannot  die  I  " 

All  the  great  acts  of  life,  and  all  the 
great  arts,  are  purely  emotional.  I  know 
that  modern  cults  deny  this,  and  work  to 
[  230  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

see  everything  gauged  by  reason.  But 
thus  far  musicians  and  painters,  preachers 
and  orators  all  approach  their  goal  by  the 
road  to  the  emotions  —  if  they  hope  to 
win  the  big  world.  Patriotism,  fidelity  — 
love  of  country,  like  love  of  woman  —  are 
emotions,  and  it  would  puzzle  logicians,  I 
am  afraid,  to  be  sure  that  these  emotions, 
at  times  sublime,  might  not  be  as  sensual 
as  some  of  Rodriguez's  critics  found  his 
music. 

The  series  of  concerts  he  gave  was  very 
exhausting  to  me,  owing  to  the  novelty  of 
some  of  his  programs,  and  the  constant 
rehearsals.  The  final  concert  found  me 
quite  worn  out. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  I 
had  been  too  weary  to  even  raise  my  eyes 
to  the  balcony  in  front  of  me,  where,  from 
my  position  among  the  first  violins,  I  could 
see  the  fair  face  of  my  beloved. 

The  evening  had  been  a  great  triumph, 
and  when  it  was  all  over  the  audience  was 
quite  mad  with  enthusiasm.  It  was  one  of 
Rodriguez's  inviolable  rules  to  play  a  pro 
gram  exactly  as  announced,  and  never  to 
add  to  it.  In  the  month  he  had  been  in 
town,  the  public  had  learned  how  impossi- 

[  231  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

ble  it  was  to  tempt  him  away  from  his 
rule.  But  Americans  are  persistent! 

Again  and  again  he  had  mounted  the 
steps  to  the  platform,  and  calmly  bowed 
his  thanks,  while  long  drawn  cheers  surged 
through  the  noise  of  hand-clapping,  as 
strains  on  the  brass  buoy  up  the  melody. 
I  lost  count  of  the  number  of  times  he  had 
ascended  and  descended  the  little  flight  of 
steps  which  led,  behind  a  screen,  from  the 
artist's  room  to  the  stage,  when,  having 
turned  in  my  seat  to  watch  him,  as  he  came 
up  and  bowed,  and  walked  off  again,  I  saw 
him,  as  he  stood  behind  the  screen,  gazing 
directly  over  our  heads,  suddenly  raise  his 
violin  to  his  ear  and  slowly  draw  the  bow 
across  the  strings. 

Almost  before  we  could  realize  what 
had  happened,  he  crossed  the  stage, 
stepped  to  his  stand,  and  drew  his  bow 
downward. 

The  applause  died  sharply  on  the  crest 
of  a  crescendo,  and  left  the  air  trembling. 
There  was  a  sudden  hush.  A  few  sank 
back  in  their  seats,  but  most  of  them  re 
mained  standing  where  they  were,  just  as 
we  behind  him  were  suddenly  fixed  in  our 
positions. 

I  have  since  heard  a  deal  of  argument 
[  232  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

as  to  the  use  and  power  of  music  as  the 
voice  of  thought.  I  was  not  then  —  and 
I  am  not  now  —  of  that  school  which 
holds  music  to  be  a  medium  to  transmit 
anything  but  musical  ideas.  So,  of  the 
effect  of  Rodriguez's  music  on  my  mind,  or 
the  possibility  that,  for  some  occult  reason, 
I  was  for  the  moment  en  rapport  with  him, 
as  after  events  forced  me  to  believe,  I  shall 
enter  into  no  discussion.  I  am  merely 
going  to  record,  to  the  best  of  my  ability, 
my  thoughts,  as  I  remember  them.  I  no 
more  presume  to  explain  why  they  came 
to  me,  than  I  do  to  analyse  my  trust  in  im 
mortality. 

As  he  drew  his  bow  downward,  as  the 
first  chord  filled  my  ears,  everything  else 
faded  away. 

There  was  the  merest  prelude,  and  then 
the  theme,  which  appeared,  disappeared 
and  re-appeared  again  and  again  to  be 
woven  about  every  emotion,  at  once  devel 
oped  and  dominated  me. 

I  seemed  at  first  to  hear  its  melody  in 
the  fresh  morning  air,  where  it  soared  up 
ward  above  the  gentle  breezes,  mingling  in 
harmony  with  the  matins  of  the  birds  and 
the  softly  rustling  trees.  Hopeful  as 
youth,  careless  as  the  wind,  it  sang  in  glad- 

[  233  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

ness  and  in  trust.  Then  I  heard  the  same 
melody  throb  under  the  noonday  glow  of 
summer.  Its  tone  was  broadened  and 
sweetened,  but  still  brave  and  pure,  when 
all  else  in  Nature,  save  its  clear  voice, 
seemed  sensuous.  I  saw  gardens  in  a  riot 
of  color;  felt  love  at  its  passionate  con 
summation,  ere  the  light  seemed  to  fade 
slowly  toward  the  sunset  hour.  The 
world  was  still  pulsing  with  color,  but  the 
grey  of  twilight  was  slowly  enwrapping  it. 
Then  the  simple  melody  soared  above  the 
day's  peacefulest  hour,  firm  in  promise 
on  the  hushed  air.  In  the  mystery  of 
night  which  followed,  when  black  clouds 
snuffed  out  the  torches  of  heaven,  when  the 
silence  had  something  of  terror  even  for 
the  brave,  that  same  steadfast  loving  hope 
ful  theme  moved  on,  consoling  as  trust  in 
immortality.  Through  youth  to  maturity, 
and  on  to  age,  it  sang  with  the  same  re- 
iterant,  subduing,  infallible  loyalty  —  the 
crystallized  melody  of  all  that  is  spiritual 
in  love,  in  adoration,  in  passion. 

As  it  died  away  into  the  distance,  as  if 
its  spirit,  barely  audible,  were  translated  to 
the  far  off  heavenly  host,  I  strained  my 
hearing  to  catch  that  "  last  fine  sound  " 
that  passed  so  gently  one  "  could  not  be 
[  234  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

quite  sure  where  it  and  silence  met,"  and 
for  the  first  and  last  time  in  my  life  I  had 
known  all  that  a  violin  can  do. 

For  a  moment  the  hush  was  wonderful. 

Rodriguez  stood  like  a  statue.  His 
bow  still  touched  the  strings.  Yet  there 
was  no  sound  that  one  could  hear,  though 
his  own  fine  head  was  still  bent,  as  though 
he,  too,  listened. 

He  gently  dropped  his  bow  —  he  smiled 
—  we  all  came  back  to  earth  together. 

Then  such  a  scene  followed  as  beggars 
description. 

But  he  passed  hurriedly  out  of  sight, 
and  no  amount  of  tumult  could  induce  him 
to  even  show  himself  again. 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  the  audience  dis 
persed,  still  murmuring.  The  musicians 
picked  up  their  traps,  and  wildly  or  soberly 
according  to  their  temperaments,  began  to 
dispute.  It  was  everywhere  the  same 
topic  —  the  unknown  work  that  Rodriguez 
had  so  marvellously  played. 

As  for  me  —  as  he  played,  I  seemed  to 
be  in  the  very  heart  of  the  melody,  singing 
it  too,  as  his  violin  sang  it.  As  the  song 
soared  upward,  my  heart  was  filled  with 
longing,  with  pain,  with  joy,  with  regret. 
As  it  gradually  died  into  silence  a  mist 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

seemed  to  pass  from  before  my  eyes,  and 
I  became  suddenly  conscious  of  the  sweet 
face  of  my  beloved,  growing  more  and 
more  distinct,  until,  as  the  last  note  died 
away,  I  was  fully  conscious  that  the  music 
had  passed  between  us,  like  a  cloud,  to 
obscure  my  sight  utterly,  and  to  recede  as 
slowly,  leaving  her  face  before  me. 

I  knew  afterward,  that,  to  all  appear 
ances,  I  had  been  gazing  directly  into  her 
face  all  the  time. 

Through  it  all  I  had  a  vague  sense  that 
what  he  played  was  not  new  to  me.  It 
seemed  like  something  I  had  long  known 
and  tried  to  say,  but  could  not. 

In  a  daze,  I  left  the  stage.  Silently  I 
put  my  violin  in  its  case,  pulled  on  my 
great  coat,  and  turned  up  the  collar  about 
my  face.  I  was  sure  I  was  haggard,  and 
I  did  not  wish  her  to  remark  it.  I  knew 
that  I  should  find  her  waiting  in  the  corri 
dor  with  her  father. 

Just  as  I  passed  out  of  the  artists*  room, 
I  was  surprised  to  see  Rodriguez  standing 
there  in  conversation  with  her,  and  her 
father.  He  was,  however,  just  leaving 
them,  and  did  not  see  me. 

I  knew  that  her  father  had  known  him 
in  Vienna,  when  the  now  great  violinist 

[  236  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

was  a  mere  lad,  and  I  had  heard  that  he 
forgot  no  one,  so  the  sight  gave  me  a 
merely  momentary  surprise. 

As  I  joined  her,  and  we  stepped  out  into 
the  night  together,  I  could  not  help  won 
dering  if  Rodriguez  had  noticed  her  sensi 
tive  violin  face,  as  I  tried  to  get  a  look 
into  her  eyes.  I  remembered  afterward 
that,  so  wrapped  was  I  in  my  own  emo 
tions,  and  so  sure  was  I  of  her  sympathy, 
that  I  neither  noted  nor  asked  how  the 
music  had  affected  her. 

It  was  bitterly  cold.  We  walked 
briskly,  and  parted  at  the  door. 

As  I  look  back,  I  realize  how  much  an 
egoist  an  emotional  man  can  be,  and  in 
good  faith  be  unconscious  of  it. 

The  day  after  the  concert  was  Satur 
day  —  a  day  on  which  I  rarely  saw  her,  as 
it  was  my  habit  to  spend  all  Sunday  with 
her.  I  was  always  somewhat  an  epicure 
in  my  moral  nature.  I  liked  to  pet  my  in 
clinations,  as  I  have  seen  good  livers  whet 
their  appetites,  by  self-denial. 

All  day  I  was  restless  and  depressed. 

At  the  piano,  with  my  violin  in  my  hand, 
it  was  still  that  same  haunting  melody  that 
bewitched  my  fingers.  Whatever  I  es 
sayed  led  me,  unconsciously,  back  to  the 

[  23?  ] 


. 
TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

same  theme;  and  whenever  that  motif  fell 
from  my  fingers  her  face  appeared  before 
my  eyes  so  distinctly  that  I  would  have  to 
dash  my  hand  across  them  to  wipe  away 
the  impression  that  it  was  the  real  face 
that  was  before  me.  Afterward,  when  I 
was  calmer,  I  knew  that  this  was  nothing 
singular  since,  whether  I  had  ever  re 
flected  on  the  fact  or  not,  she  was  rarely 
from  my  mind. 

As  I  played  that  melody  over  and  over 
again,  it  puzzled  me  more  and  more.  I 
could  find  nowhere  within  my  memory 
anything  that  even  reminded  me  of  it. 
Yet  I  was  vaguely  familiar  with  it. 

When  evening  came  on  I  was  more  rest 
less  than  ever.  By  nine  o'clock  I  found 
it  impossible  to  bear  longer  with  my  own 
company,  and  I  started  out.  I  had  no  des 
tination.  Something  impelled  me  toward 
the  Opera  House,  though  I  cared  little  for 
opera  as  a  rule,  that  is,  opera  as  we  have 
it  in  America  —  fashionable  and  Philis 
tine.  t 

I  entered  the  auditorium  —  the  opera 
was  "  Faust  " —  just  in  season  to  hear  the 
last  half  of  the  third  act. 

As  the  sensuous  passionate  music 
swelled  in  the  sultry  air  of  the  dark  gar- 

c  238  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

den  at  Nuremburg,  I  listened,  moved  by 
it  as  I  always  am  —  when  I  cannot  see 
the  over-dressed,  lady-like  Marguerite 
that  goes  a-starring  in  America.  My  eyes 
wandered  restlessly  over  the  audience. 
Suddenly  there  was  a  rushing,  like  the 
surging  of  waters,  in  my  ears,  which 
drowned  the  music,  and  I  saw  Rodriguez 
sitting  carelessly  in  the  front  of  a  stage 
box.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and  I 
thought  there  was  an  expression  of  relief 
in  them. 

Shocked  that  the  unexpected  sight  of  the 
man  should  have  such  an  effect  on  me,  I 
pulled  myself  together  with  an  effort. 
The  sound  of  the  waters  receded,  the 
music  rushed  back,  leaving  me  amazed  at 
a  condition  in  myself  which  should  have 
rendered  me  so  susceptible,  in  some  sub 
conscious  way,  to  the  undoubted  magnet 
ism  of  the  man  whose  violin  had  so  af 
fected  me  the  night  before,  and  so  haunted 
me  all  day,  and  in  regard  to  whose  com 
position  I  had  an  ill-defined,  but  insistent, 
theory  which  would  intrude  into  my  mind. 

In  vain  I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  stage. 
I  could  not  forget  his  presence.  Every 
few  minutes  my  glance,  as  if  drawn  by  a 
magnet,  would  turn  in  his  direction,  and 

[  239  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

as  often  as  that  happened,  whether  he 
were  leaning  back  to  speak  to  some  one 
hidden  by  the  curtain,  or  watching  the 
house,  or  listening  intently  to  the  music,  I 
never  failed  to  find  that  his  eyes  met  mine. 

I  sat  through  the  next  act  in  this  con 
dition.  Then  I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
I  felt  that  I  might  end  by  making  myself 
objectionable,  and  that,  after  all,  it  was 
far  wiser  to  be  safe  at  home,  than  sitting 
in  the  theatre  where  I  occupied  myself  in 
staring  at  but  one  person. 

I  made  my  way  slowly  up  the  aisle  and 
into  the  foyer,  and  had  nearly  reached  the 
outer  lobby,  when  I  suddenly  felt  sure  that 
he  was  near. 

I  looked  up ! 

Yes,  there  he  was,  and  he  was  looking 
me  directly  in  the  face  again.  An  odd 
smile  came  into  his  eyes.  He  nodded  to 
me  as  he  approached,  and,  with  a  quaint 
shake  of  the  head,  said:  "  I  just  made  a 
wager  with  myself.  I  bet  that  if  I  en 
countered  you  in  the  lobby,  without  actu 
ally  seeking  you,  andiyou  saw  me,  I'd  speak 
to  you  —  and  ask  a  favor  of  you.  I  am 
going  to  win  that  wager." 

He  'did  not  seem  to  expect  me  to  answer 
him.  He  simply  turned  beside  me,  thrust 
[  240  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

his  arm  carelessly  through  mine,  and 
moved  with  me  toward  the  exit. 

"  Let  us  step  outside  a  moment,"  he 
said.  It  was  easy  to  understand  why. 
The  hero  of  the  night  before  could  not 
hope  to  pass  unnoted. 

He  stepped  into  the  street. 

It  was  a  moonlit  night.  I  remember 
that  distinctly. 

He  lighted  his  cigarette,  and  held  his 
case  toward  me.  I  shook  my  head.  I 
had  no  desire  to  smoke. 

We  walked  a  few  steps  together  in  si 
lence  before  he  said:  "I  am  trying  to 
frame  a  most  unusual  request  so  that  it 
may  not  seem  too  fantastic  to  you.  It  is 
more  difficult  than  writing  a  fugue.  The 
truth  is  —  I  have  gotten  myself  into  a  bit 
of  a  fix  —  and  I  want  to  guard  against  its 
turning  into  something  worse  than  that. 
I  need  some  man's  assistance  to  extricate 
myself." 

I  probably  looked  alarmed.  Those 
forebears  of  mine  will  intrude  when  I  am 
taken  by  surprise.  He  saw  it,  and  said, 
quickly:  "  It  is  nothing  that  a  man,  will 
ing  to  be  of  service  to  me,  need  balk  at; 
nothing,  in  fact,  that  a  chivalrous  man 
would  not  be  glad  to  do.  You  may  not 

[  241  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

think  very  well  of  me  afterward,  but  be 
sure  you  will  never  regret  the  act.  I  was 
in  sore  need  of  a  friend.  There  was  none 
at  hand  —  if  such  as  I  ever  have  friends. 
Suddenly  I  saw  you.  I  remembered  your 
violin  as  I  heard  it  behind  me  last  night  — 
an  Amati,  I  fancy?  " 

I  nodded  assent. 

"  A  beautiful  instrument.  I  may  some 
day  ask  you  to  let  me  try  it  —  you  and  I 
can  never  be  quite  strangers  after  to 
night." 

He  paused,  pounded  the  sidewalk  with 
his  stick,  impatiently,  as  if  the  long  pre 
amble  made  him  as  nervous  as  it  did  me. 
Then,  looking  me  in  the  face,  he  said  rap 
idly:  "This  is  it.  When  I  leave  the 
box,  after  the  next  act,  do  you  follow  me. 
Stay  by  me,  no  matter  what  happens. 
Stick  to  me,  even  though  I  ask  you  to  leave 
me,  so  long  as  there  is  any  one  with  me. 
Do  more  —  stay  by  me,  until,  in  your 
room  or  mine,  you  and  I  sit  down  together, 
and  —  well,  I  will  explain  what  must,  until 
then,  seem  either  mad  or  ridiculous.  Is 
that  clear?" 

I  assured  him  that  it  was. 

"  Agreed  then,"  he  said. 

By  this  time  we  were  back  at  the  door. 
[  242  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

The  whole  thing  had  not  taken  five  min 
utes.  We  re-entered  the  theatre,  and 
walked  hurriedly  through  the  lobby  to  the 
foyer.  As  we  were  about  to  separate,  he 
laid  a  hand  on  either  of  my  shoulders,  and 
with  a  whimsical  smile,  said:  "I'll  dare 
swear  I  shall  try  to  give  you  the  slip." — 
The  smile  died  on  his  lips.  It  never 
reached  his  eyes.  "  Don't  let  me  do  it. 
After  the  next  act,  then,"  and,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  he  disappeared. 

I  thought  I  was  ridiculous  enough  when 
he  had  gone,  and  I  realized  that  I  had 
promised  to  follow  this  man,  I  did  not 
know  where,  I  did  not  know  with  whom,  I 
did  not  know  why. 

It  was  useless  for  me  to  go  back  into 
the  auditorium.  I  could  not  listen  to  the 
music.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  kept  ap 
proaching  the  entrance  opposite  the  box, 
and  peering  through  the  glass,  like  a  de 
tective.  I  knew  I  was  afraid  that  he 
would  keep  his  word  and  try  to  give  me 
the  slip.  I  never  asked  myself  what  differ 
ence  it  would  make  to  me  if  he  did.  I 
simply  took  up  the  strange  unexplained 
task  he  had  given  me  as  if  to  me  it  were  a 
matter  of  life  or  death. 

Even  before  the  curtain  fell,  I  had  hur- 

[  243  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

ried  round  the  house  and  placed  myself 
with  my  back  to  the  door,  so  that  I  could 
not  miss  him  as  he  passed,  and  yet  had  no 
appearance  of  watching  him.  It  was  well 
that  I  did,  for  in  an  instant  the  door 
opened.  He  came  out  and  passed  me 
quickly,  followed  by  a  tall  slender  woman 
in  a  straight  wrap  that  fell  from  her  head 
to  the  ground,  and  the  domino-like  hood 
which  completely  concealed  her  face. 

As  he  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm, 
he  looked  back  at  me,  over  his  shoulder. 
His  eyes  met  mine.  They  seemed  to  say, 
"  Is  it  you,  old  True-penny?  "  But  he 
merely  bent  his  head  courteously  and  with 
his  lips  said,  "  Come !  "  I  felt  sure  that 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly,  as 
he  saw  that  I  kept  my  word,  and  followed. 

At  the  door  he  found  his  carriage.  He 
assisted  his  companion  in.  Then  in  the 
gentlest  manner  he  said  in  my  ear,  as  he 
stood  aside  for  me  to  enter,  "  In  with  you. 
My  honor  is  saved,  but  repentance  dogs  its 
heels." 

To  the  lady  he  said,  "  This  is  the  friend 
whom  you  were  kind  enough  to  permit  me 
to  ask  for  supper." 

She  made  no  reply. 

I  uncovered  my  head  to  salute  her,  mur- 

[  244  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

muring  some  vague  phrase  of  thanks, 
which  was,  I  am  sure,  inaudible.  Then 
Rodriguez  followed,  and  took  his  place 
beside  me  on  the  front  seat. 

As  the  door  banged  I  could  have  sworn 
that  the  lady,  whose  face  was  concealed 
behind  the  falling  lace  of  her  hood,  as  if 
by  a  mask,  spoke. 

He  thought  so,  too,  for  he  leaned  for 
ward  as  if  to  catch  the  words.  Evidently 
we  were  mistaken,  for  he  received  no  re 
sponse.  He  murmured  an  oath  against 
the  pavements  and  the  noise,  and  turned 
a  smiling  face  to  me  —  and  I  ?  Why,  I 
smiled  back ! 

As  we  rattled  over  the  pavings,  through 
the  lighted  streets,  no  one  spoke.  The 
lady  leaned  back  in  her  corner.  Opposite 
her  Rodriguez  hummed  "  Salve!  dirnora  " 
and  I  beside  him,  sat  strangely  confused 
and  inert,  still  as  if  in  a  dream. 

I  had  not  even  noted  the  direction  we 
were  taking,  until  I  found  that  we  had 
stopped  in  front  of  a  French  resturant,  one 
of  the  few  Bohemian  resorts  the  town 
boasted. 

Rodriguez  leaped  out,  assisted  the  lady, 
and  I  followed. 

Just  as  we  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs, 

[  245   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

as  1  was  about  to  follow  them  into  one  of 
the  small  supper  rooms,  like  a  flash,  as  if 
I  were  suddenly  waking  from  a  dream  into 
conscious,  with  exactly  the  same  sensation 
I  have  experienced  many  and  many  a  morn 
ing  when  struggling  back  to  life  from  sleep, 
I  realized  that  the  slender  figure  before 
me  was  as  familiar  as  my  own  hand. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  us,  I  called 
her  by  name  —  and  my  voice  startled  even 
myself. 

She  threw  back  the  hood  of  her  cape  and 
faced  me. 

Rodriguez  had  heard,  too.  He  wheeled 
quickly  toward  us,  as  nearly  broken  from 
his  self-control  as  a  man  so  sure  of  himself 
could  be. 

Under  the  flash  of  our  eyes  the  color 
surged  up  painfully  in  her  pale  face. 
There  was  much  the  same  expression  in 
our  eyes,  I  fancy, —  Rodriguez's  and  mine 
—  but  I  felt  that  it  was  at  his  face  she 
gazed. 

I  have  never  known  how  far  it  is  given 
to  woman  to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of 
human  nature,  for  she  is  gifted,  it  seems 
to  me,  with  a  dissimulation  in  which  she 
wraps  herself,  as  with  an  impenetrable 
veil  of  outward  innocence,  and  ignorance, 

[  246  ]. 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

from  our  less  acute  perception  and  ruder 
knowledge. 

There  were  speeches  enough  that  it 
would  have  become  a  man  in  my  position 
to  make.  I  knew  them  all.  But  —  I  said 
nothing.  Some  instinct  saved  me;  some 
vague  fore-knowledge  made  me  feel  —  I 
knew  not  why  —  that  there  was  really 
nothing  for  me  to  say  at  that  moment. 

For  fully  a  minute  none  of  us  moved. 

Rodriguez  recovered  himself  first.  I 
cannot  describe  the  peculiar  expression  of 
his  eyes  as  he  slowly  turned  them  from  her 
face  to  mine.  So  bound  up  was  he  in  him 
self  that  I  was  confident  that  he  did  not 
yet  suspect  more  than  that  she  and  I  had 
met  before.  What  was  in  her  mind  I 
dared  not  guess. 

He  composedly  crossed  to  her.  He 
gently  unfastened  her  heavy  wrap,  care 
fully  lifted  it  from  her  shoulders.  He 
pushed  a  high  backed  chair  toward  her, 
and,  with  a  smile,  forced  her  to  sit  —  she 
did  look  dangerously  white.  She  sank 
into  it,  and  wearily  leaned  her  pretty  head 
back,  as  if  for  support,  and  I  noticed  that 
her  slender  hands,  as  they  grasped  either 
arm  of  the  chair,  trembled,  in  spite  of  the 
grip  she  took  to  steady  herself.  I  felt  her 

[  24?  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

whole  body  vibrate,  as  a  violin  vibrates 
for  a  moment  after  the  bow  leaves  the 
strings. 

"  It  is  a  strange  chance  that  you  two 
should  know  each  other,"  he  said,  "  and 
very  well,  too,  if  I  may  judge  from  your 
manner  of  addressing  her?  " 

I  moved  to  a  place  behind  her  chair,  and 
laid  my  hand  on  it.  "  This  lady  is  my 
affianced  wife,"  I  replied. 

He  did  not  change  color.  For  an 
instant  not  a  muscle  moved.  He  did  not 
stir  a  step  from  his  place  before  the  fire, 
where  he  stood,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  her 
face.  For  one  instant  he  turned  his  widely 
opened  eyes  on  me  —  brief  as  the  glance 
was,  I  felt  it  was  critical.  Then  his  lids 
quivered  and  drooped  completely  over  his 
eyes,  absolutely  veiling  the  whole  man,  and, 
to  my  amazement,  he  laughed  aloud. 

But  even  as  he  did  so,  he  spread  his 
hands  quickly  toward  us  as  if  to  apologize, 
and  ghastly  as  the  comment  was,  grotesque 
even,  as  it  all  seemed,  I  think  we  both 
understood.  He  hardly  needed  to  say, 
"  Pardon  me,"  as  he  quickly  recovered  his 
strong  hold  on  himself. 

The  next  instant  he  was  again  standing 
erect  before  the  fire,  with  his  hands  thrust 

[  248  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

deep  into  his  pockets,  and  his  voice  was 
absolutely  calm  as  he  turned  toward  me 
and  said,  with  a  smile  under  his  half 
lowered  heavy  lids,  "  I  promised  you,  when 
I  asked  you  to  accompany  me,  that  before 
we  slept  to-night  I  would  explain  my  singu 
lar  request.  I  hardly  thought  that  I 
should  have  to  do  it,  whether  I  would  or 
not,  under  these  circumstances.  Indeed, 
it  appears  that  you  have  the  right  to  de 
mand  of  me  the  explanation  I  so  flippantly 
offered  you  an  hour  ago.  I  am  bound  to 
own  that,  had  I  dreamed  that  you  knew 
this  lady  —  that  a  relation  so  intimate 
existed  between  you  —  I  should  surely 
never  have  done  of  my  own  will  this  which 
Fate  has  presumed  to  do  for  me.  What 
can  I  say  to  you  two  that  will  help  or  mend 
this  —  to  you,  my  fellow  musician,  who 
were  willing  to  stand -my  friend  in  need, 
without  question;  and  to  the  woman  you 
love,  and  to  whom  I  owe  an  eternal  debt 
—  that  we  may  have  no  doubts  of  one 
another  in  the  future?  I  cannot  make 
excuses  well,  even  if  I  have  the  right  to. 
I  only  hope  we  are  all  three  so  constituted 
that  we  may  be  able  to  feel  that  for  a 
little  we  have  been  outside  common  causes 
and  common  results,  and  that  you  may 

[  249  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

listen  to  an  explanation  which  may  seem 
strange,  pardon  me,  and  part  from  me 
without  resentment,  being  sure  that  I  shall 
suffer,  and  yet  be  glad." 

The  face  against  the  high-backed  chair 
was  very  pale.  She  closed  her  eyes.  His 
gaze  was  on  her.  He  marked  the  change, 
I  was  sure.  He  thrust  his  hands  still 
deeper  into  his  pockets,  as  if  to  brace  him 
self,  and  went  on.  "  Last  night  her  pure 
eyes  looked  into  mine.  I  had  seen  her 
face  before  me  night  after  night,  never 
dreaming  who  she  was.  I  had  always 
played  to  her,  and  it  had  seemed  to  me  at 
times  as  if  the  music  I  made  was  in  her 
face.  I  could  see  nothing  else.  I  seemed 
to  be  looking  through  her  amber  eyes, 
down,  down  into  her  deep  beautiful  soul, 
and  my  soul  reached  out  toward  her,  with 
a  sudden  knowledge  of  what  manhood 
might  have  been  had  all  womanhood  been 
pure;  of  what  life  might  have  been  with 
one  who  could  know  no  sin. 

"  It  was  only  her  face  that  I  saw,  as  I 
stood  waiting  the  end  of  the  applause.  I 
seemed  to  be  gazing  between  her  glorious 
eyes,  as  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  more  than 
once  gazed  in  my  dreams  in  the  past  month. 
I  had  already  written  the  song  that  seeing 

[  2.50  J 


,THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

her  face  had  sung  in  my  heart.  It  was 
with  an  irresistible  longing,  an  impulse 
stronger  than  my  will,  to  say  to  her  just 
what  her  face  had  said  to  me, —  though 
she  might  never  know  it  was  said  to  her  — 
that  I  went  back  to  the  stage.  Almost 
before  I  realized  it,  I  was  there.  I  felt 
the  vibrant  soul  of  my  violin  as  I  laid  my 
cheek  against  it,  and  I  saw  the  same  spirit 
tremble  behind  the  eyes  of  the  fair  face 
above  me,  as  one  sees  a  reflection  tremble 
under  the  wind  rippled  water.  The  first 
chord  throbbed  on  the  air  in  response  to 
it.  Then  I  played  what  she  had  uncon 
sciously  inspired  in  me.  It  was  in  her 
eyes,  where  never  swerving,  immortal 
loyalty  shone,  that  I  read  the  deathless 
theme.  Out  of  her  nature  came  the  inspi 
ration.  To  her  belongs  the  honor.  I 
know  —  no  one  better,  that  as  I  played 
last  night,  I  shall  never  play  again;  just 
as  I  realize  that  what  I  played  last  night 
my  own  nature  could  never  of  itself  have 
created.  It  was  she  who  spoke,  it  was  not 
I.  Let  him  who  dares,  try  to  explain  that 
miracle." 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  moved 
toward  him,  and  as  she  moved,  she  swayed 
pitifully. 

[  251  i 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

He  did  not  stir. 

It  was  I  who  caught  her  as  she  stumbled, 
and  I  held  her  close  in  my  arms.  After 
a  moment,  she  relaxed  a  little,  and  her 
head  drooped  wearily  on  my  shoulder. 
He  lowered  his  lids,  and  I  felt  that  every 
nerve  in  his  well  controlled  body  quivered 
with  resentment. 

He  motioned  to  entreat  her  to  sit  down 
again.  She  shook  her  head,  and,  when  he 
went  on,  again,  he  for  the  first  time  ad 
dressed  himself  directly  to  her.  "  It  was 
chance  that  set  you  across  my  path  last 
night  —  you  and  your  father.  I  recog 
nized  him  at  once.  I  knew  your  mother 
well.  I  can  remember  the  day  on  which 
you  were  born,  I  was  a  lad  then.  Your 
mother  was  one  of  my  idols.  Why,  child, 
I  fiddled  for  you  in  your  cradle.  At  the 
moment  I  realized  who  you  were,  you  were 
so  much  a  part  of  my  music  that  you  only 
appealed  to  me  through  that.  But  when 
I  left  you,  I  carried  a  consciousness  of  you 
with  me  that  was  more  tangible.  I  had 
held  your  hand  in  mine.  I  feel  it  there 
still. 

"  I  went  directly  to  my  room,  alone.  I 
sat  down  immediately  to  transcribe  as 
much  of  what  I  had  played  as  possible 
[  252  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

while  it  was  fresh  in  my  mind.  As  I  wrote 
I  was  alone  with  you.  But  as  the  spirit 
of  the  music  was  imprisoned,  I  knew  that 
you  were  becoming  more  and  more  a  ma 
terial  presence  to  me.  When  I  slept,  it 
was  to  dream  of  you  again  —  but,  oh,  the 
difference ! 

"  I  should  have  been  grateful  to  you  for 
the  inspiration  that  you  had  been  to  me  — 
and  I  was !  But  it  had  served  its  purpose. 
They  tell  me  I  never  played  like  that 
before.  I  feel  I  never  shall  again.  But 
the  end  of  an  emotion  is  never  in  the  spirit 
with  me. 

"  I  started  out  this  afternoon  to  find  you, 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  I  should  have  left 
town.  I  had  the  audacity  to  tell  myself 
that  I  should  be  a  cad  if  I  departed  with 
out  thanking  the  sweet  daughter  of  your 
mother  for  her  share  in  making  me  great. 
I  had  the  presumption  to  believe  in  myself. 
It  seemed  natural  enough  to  your  good 
father  that  '  a  whimsical  genius/  as  he 
called  me,  should  be  allowed  the  caprice 
of  even  tardily  looking  up  his  boyhood's 
acquaintance.  He  received  me  nobly, 
was  proud  that  you  should  see  I  remem 
bered  him  —  and  simply  made  no  secret 
of  it. 

[  253   ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

u  Though  I  knew  what  you  had  seemed 
to  me,  I  little  realized  that  the  child  of  true, 
fine  musical  spirits  had  a  nature  strung  like 
my  Strad  —  fine,  clear,  true,  matchless,  as 
well  as  inspiring.  I  spent  a  beautiful 
afternoon  with  you.  I  cannot  better  ex 
plain  than  by  saying  that  to  me  it  was  like 
such  a  day  as  I  have  sometimes  had  with 
my  violin.  I  call  them  my  holy-days,  and 
God  knows  I  try  to  keep  them  holy, — 
though  after  too  many  of  them  follow  a 
St.  Michael  and  the  Dragon  tussle  —  and 
I  mean  no  discredit  to  the  Archangel, 
either. 

"  The  honest  old  father,  proud  to  trust 
his  daughter  to  me, —  in  his  kind  heart  he 
always  considered  me  a  most  maligned 
man, —  went  off  to  the  play  and  his  Satur 
day  night  club.  He  told  me  that. 

'*  We  were  alone  together.  It  was  then 
that  I  began  to  think  that  I  could  probably 
play  on  her  nature  as  I  did  on  my  violin, 
and  then,  with  a  player's  frenzy,  to  realize 
that  I  had  been  doing  it  from  the  first;  that 
we  had  vibrated  in  harmony  like  two  ends 
of  a  chord.  Then  I  saw  no  more  the  spirit 
behind  her  eyes.  I  saw  only  the  beautiful 
face  in  which  the  color  came  and  went,  the 
burnished  hair  so  full  of  golden  lights,  on 

C  254  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

which  I  longed  to  lay  my  hand  —  the  sen 
sitive  red  lips  —  and  the  angel  and  the 
demon  rose  up  within  me,  and  looked  one 
another  in  the  face,  and  I  heard  the  one 
fling  the  truth  at  the  other,  which  even  the 
devil  no  longer  cared  to  deny  —  Ah,  for 
give  me !  — " 

In  his  egoism  of  self-analysis  and  open 
confession,  I  am  sure  he  did  not  realize 
how  far  he  was  going,  until  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

Then  he  stepped  across  the  room  and 
stood  before  me  as  she  rested  her  face  in 
her  hands  against  my  breast. 

"  It  was  not  especially  clever  —  the  last 
struggle  against  myself.  I  had  never 
known  such  a  woman  before.  I  suppose 
if  I  had,  I  should  have  tortured  her  to 
death  to  strike  new  chords  out  of  her 
nature, —  and  wept  at  my  work !  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  tear  myself  abruptly 
away.  I  suggested  an  hour  of  the  opera 
—  I  gave  her  the  public  as  a  protector  — 
and  they  sang  *  Faust.'  It  was  then  that, 
knowing  myself  so  well,  I  looked  out  into 
the  auditorium  and  saw  you!  It  was 
Providence  that  put  you  in  my  way.  I 
thought  it  was  accident.  I  am  sure  I  need 
say  no  more?  " 

[  255  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

I  shook  my  head. 

He  leaned  over  her  a  moment.  He 
gently  took  her  hands  from  her  face.  Her 
eyelids  trembled.  For  one  brief  moment 
she  opened  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  You  have  given  me  one  sweet  day," 
he  murmured.  "  Some  part  of  your  soul 
has  called  its  music  out  of  mine.  That  off 
spring  of  a  miraculous  sympathy  will  live 
immortal  when  all  else  of  our  two  lives  is 
forgotten.  Remember  to-day  as  a  dream 
—  and  me  as  a  shadow  there  — "  he 
stopped  abruptly.  I  felt  her  head  fall  for 
ward.  She  had  swooned. 

Together  we  looked  into  the  beautiful 
colorless  face. 

I  loved  music  as  I  loved  light.  I  was 
an  artist  myself.  A  great  musician  —  and 
this  man  was  one  —  was  to  me  the  greatest 
achievement  of  Art  and  Living. 

I  did  not  refuse  the  hand  he  held  out. 
I  buried  mine  in  it. 

I  did  not  smile  nor  mistrust,  nor  mis 
understand  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  nor  despise 
him  because  I  knew  they  would  soon 
enough  be  dry.  I  did  not  doubt  his  sin 
cerity  when  he  said,  "  I  have  never  done 
so  bitter  a  thing  as  say  '  good-bye  '  to  this 

[  256  ] 


THE  VIOLINIST'S  STORY 

—  though  I  know  but  too  well  such  are  not 
for  me." 

He  bent  over  her,  as  if  he  would  take 
her  in  his  arms. 

She  was  unconscious.  I  felt  tempted  to 
put  her  there.  I  knew  I  loved  her  as  he 
could  never  love  —  yet  I  pitied  him  the 
more  for  that. 

"Tell  her,"  he  whispered,  "tell  her, 
when  she  shall  have  forgotten  this  —  as  I 
hope  she  will  —  that  for  this  hour  at  least 
I  loved  her;  that  losing  her  I  am  liable  to 
love  her  long,- —  so  we  shall  never  meet 
again.  I  shall  never  cease  to  be  grateful 
to  the  Providence  that  threw  you  in  my 
way  —  after  to-night.  To-night  I  could 
curse  it  and  my  conscience  with  a  right 
good  will."  With  an  effort  he  straight 
ened  himself.  "  You  can  afford  to  for 
give  me,"  he  said,  "  for  I  —  I  envy  you 
with  all  my  heart." —  And  he  was  gone. 

I  heard  his  voice  as  he  spoke  to  the 
waiter  outside.  I  listened  to  his  step  as 
he  descended  the  stairs.  He  had  passed 
out  of  our  life  forever. 

That  was  years  ago. 

She  has  long  been  dead. 

He  was  not  to  blame  if  the  sunshine  that 

[  257  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

danced  in  music  out  of  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  I  loved  never  quite  came  back 
again.  We  were,  all  the  same,  happy 
together  in  our  way. 

He  was  not  to  blame  if  it  was  written 
in  the  big  book  of  Fate  that  it  should  be 
his  heart,  and  not  mine,  that  should  read 
the  song  she  bore  in  her  soul. 

Something  must  be  sacrificed  for  Art. 
We  sacrificed  our  first  illusions  —  and  the 
Song  he  read  will  sing  on  when  even  Rodri 
guez  is  but  a  tradition. 


[  258  ] 


EPILOGUE 

ADIEU 
How  WE  WENT  OUT  OF  THE  GARDEN 

THE  last  word  had  hardly  been  uttered 
when  the  Youngster,  who  had  been  fidget 
ing,  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  Hark !"  he  cried. 

We  all  listened. 

"  Cannon,"  he  yelled,  and  rushed  out  to 
the  big  gate,  which  he  tore  open,  and 
dashed  into  the  road. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it.  Off  to  the 
north  we  could  all  hear  the  dull  far-off 
booming  of  artillery. 

We  followed  into  the  garden. 

The  Youngster  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
road.  As  we  joined  him  he  bent  toward 
the  ground,  as  if,  Indian-like,  he  could 
hear  better.  "  Hush,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper,  as  we  all  began  to  talk.  "  Hush ! 
I  hear  horses." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  and  in  it,  we 

C  259  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

could  hear  the  pounding  of  horses'  hoofs 
in  the  valley. 

"  Better  come  in  out  of  the  rain,"  said 
the  Doctor,  and  we  obeyed.  Once  inside 
the  gate  the  Doctor  said,  "  Well,  I  reckon 
it  is  to-morrow  at  the  latest  for  us.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  is:  I  kept  something 
from  you  this  evening.  The  village  was 
drummed  out  last  night.  As  this  road  is 
being  kept  clear,  no  one  passed  here,  and 
as  we  were  ready  to  start  at  a  moment's 
notice,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  one 
more  evening.  However,  we've  time 
enough.  They  can't  advance  to-night. 
Too  wet.  No  moon.  Come  on  into  the 
house." 

He  closed  and  locked  the  big  gate,  but 
before  we  reached  the  house,  there  was  a 
rush  of  horsemen  in  the  road  —  then  a 
halt  —  the  Youngster  opened  the  gate 
before  it  was  called  for.  Two  mounted 
men  in  Khaki  rode  in,  stopped  short  at  the 
sight  of  the  group,  saluted. 

"Your  house?"  asked  one,  as  he  slid 
from  his  saddle  and  leaned  against  his 
horse. 

"  Mine,"  said  the  Doctor,  stepping 
forward. 

"  You  are  not  proposing  to  stay  here?  " 
[  260  ] 


How  WE  WENT  OUT  OF  THE  GARDEN 

"  No,  we  are  leaving  in  the  morning." 

u  Got  any  conveyances?  " 

"  Two  touring  cars." 

"  Good.  You  don't  mind  my  proposing 
that  you  go  before  daylight,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "  if  it 
is  necessary." 

"  That's  for  you  to  decide,"  said  the 
other  officer.  "  We  are  going  to  set  up 
a  battery  in  this  garden.  Awfully  sorry, 
you  know,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

The  Youngster,  who  had  remained  at 
the  gate,  came  back,  and  whispered  in  my 
ear,  "  They  are  coming.  It's  the  English 
still  retreating.  By  Jove,  it  looks  as  if 
they  would  get  to  Paris !  " 

"  How  many  are  there  of  you?  "  asked 
the  senior  officer. 

"  Ten,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

"  Eleven,"  corrected  the  Divorcee.  "  I 
shall  take  Angele  and  the  baby."  And 
she  started  on  a  run  for  the  garage. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  Doctor,  looking 
through  the  open  gate,  where  the  weary 
soldiers  were  beginning  to  straggle  by, 
"  perhaps  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  all 
of  us  to  go."  And  he  went  close  to  the 
officers,  and  drew  his  papers  from  his 
pocket.  There  was  a  hurried  whispered 

[  261  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

conversation,  in  which  the  Critic  and  the 
Journalist  joined.  When  it  was  over,  the 
Doctor  said,  "  I  understand,"  and  returned 
to  our  group. 

"Well,  good  friends,"  he  said,  "it 
really  is  farewell  to  the  garden!  The 
Critic  and  I  are  going  to  stay  a  bit.  We 
are  needed.  The  Youngster  will  drive 
one  car,  and  the  Lawyer  the  other.  Get 
ready  to  start  by  three, —  that  will  be 
just  before  daylight  —  and  get  into  the 
house,  all  of  you.  You  are  in  the  way 
here!" 

Everybody  obeyed. 

We  had  less  than  three  hours  to  get 
together  necessary  articles  and  all  the  time 
there  was  the  steady  marching  of  feet  in 
the  road,  where  what  servants  we  had  were 
standing  with  water  and  such  small  help  as 
could  be  offered  a  tired  army,  and  bringing 
in  for  first  aid  such  of  the  exhausted  men 
as  could  be  braced  up. 

Long  before  we  were  ready,  we  heard 
the  rumble  of  the  artillery  and  the  low 
commands  of  the  officers.  In  spite  of  our 
selves,  we  looked  out  to  see  the  gray  things 
being  driven  into  the  gate,  and  down 
toward  the  hillside. 

c  262  ] 


How  WE  WENT  OUT  OF  THE  GARDEN 

"  Oh,"  groaned  the  Divorcee,  "  right 
over  the  flower  beds !  " 

"  Bother  it  all,  don't  look  out,"  shouted 
the  Youngster  from  his  room.  "  That's 
just  like  a  woman !  Be  a  sport !  "  And 
he  dashed  down  the  hall.  We  had  just 
time  to  see  that  he  had  "  put  that  uniform 
on."  He  was  going  into  the  big  game, 
and  he  was  dressed  for  the  part.  In  a 
certain  sense,  all  the  men  were,  when  we 
at  last,  bags  in  hand,  gathered  in  the  din 
ing  room,  so  we  were  not  surprised  to  find 
the  Nurse  in  her  hospital  rig,  with  a  white 
cap  covering  her  hair,  and  the  red  cross 
on  her  arm.  We  knew  at  once  that  she 
was  remaining  behind  with  the  Doctor  and 
the  Critic. 

The  cars  were  at  the  door.  Angele? 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  was  sitting  in 
one. 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  the 
quicker  you  are  out  of  this  the  better." 

And,  almost  without  a  word,  like  sol 
diers  under  orders,  we  were  packed  into 
the  two  cars.  The  Youngster,  the  Law 
yer,  and  the  two  officers  stood  together 
with  their  heads  bent  over  a  map. 

"  Better  take   a   side   road,"   said   the 

[  263  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 

officer,  "  until  you  get  near  to  Meaux,  then 
take  the  route  de  Senlis.  It  will  lead  you 
right  over  the  hill  into  the  Meaux,  then 
you  will  find  the  route  nationale  free. 
Cross  the  Marne  there,  and  on  into  Paris 
by  the  forest  of  Vincennes." 

"  Let  the  Lawyer  lead,"  said  the  Doctor, 
"  and  be  prudent,  Youngster.  You  know 
where  a  letter  will  reach  me.  See  that  the 
girls  get  off  safely!"  He  shook  hands 
all  round.  The  cars  shot  out  of  the  gate, 
tooted  for  a  passage  through  the  strag 
gling  line  of  tired  men  in  Khaki,  took  the 
first  turn  to  get  out  of  the  way,  and  shot 
down  the  hill  to  the  river. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Youngster,  who  was 
driving  our  car,  with  the  Voilinist  beside 
him,  "  I  think  we  behaved  fine,  and,  by 
Jove,  how  I  hate  to  go  just  now!  But  I 
have  to  join  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I 
suppose  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  I  see 
anything  as  exciting  as  this.  Bother  it. 
Well,  you  were  amazed  at  the  calmness 
only  yesterday !  " 

No  one  replied.  We  were  all  busy 
with  our  own  thoughts,  and  with  "  playing 
the  game."  In  silence  we  crossed  the  first 
bridge.  Day  was  just  breaking  as  we 
mounted  the  hill  on  the  other  side.  Sud- 
[  264  ] 


How  WE  WENT  OUT  OF  THE  GARDEN 

denly  the   Youngster   put   on   the   brake. 

"  Here,"  he  said  to  the  Violinist,  "  take 
the  wheel  a  moment.  I  must  look  back." 

Just  as  he  spoke  there  was  a  tremendous 
explosion. 

"  Bomb,"  he  cried,  as  he  got  out  his 
glass,  and,  standing  on  the  running  board, 
looked  back.  "  They've  got  it,"  he  yelled. 
"Look!" 

We  all  piled  out  of  the  car,  and  ran  to 
the  edge  of  the  hill.  From  there  we  could 
look  back  and  just  see  the  dear  old  house 
standing  on  the  opposite  height  in  its 
walled  garden. 

There  was  another  explosion,  and  a  puff 
of  smoke  seemed  to  rise  right  out  of  the 
middle  of  the  garden,  where  the  old  tree 
stood,  under  which  we  had  dined  so  many 
evenings. 

For  a  few  minutes  we  stood  in  silence. 

It  was  the  gentle  voice  of  the  Violinist 
that  called  us  back.  "  Better  get  on,"  he 
said.  "  We  can  do  nothing  now  but  obey 
orders,"  and  quietly  we  crawled  back  and 
the  car  started  on. 

We  did  not  speak  again  until  we  ran  up 
to  the  gates  of  Paris,  and  stopped  to  have 
our  papers  examined  for  the  last  time. 
Then  I  said,  with  a  laugh:  "And  only 

[  265  ] 


TOLD  IN  A  FRENCH  GARDEN 


think!  I  did  not  tell  my  story  at  all!  " 
"  That's  so,"  said  the  Youngster. 
"  What  a  shame.  Never  mind,  dear,  you 
can  tell  the  whole  story!": — •  And  I 
have. 


THE    END 


[  266  ] 


HOME  USE 

CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
MAIN  LIBRARY 


Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior 
to  due  date. 

7 


"21975 


C1B- 


ranaral  I ihrarY 


06048 


'3586 


/- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


